A  HAND-BOOK 


OF 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


INTENDED   FOR   THE 

USE    OF    HIGH    SCHOOLS, 

AS    WELL    AS 

A  COMPANION  AND  GUIDE  FOR  PRIVATE  STUDENTS, 
AND  FOR  GENERAL  READERS. 


BY 


FRANCIS    H.  UNDERWOOD,  A.M. 


BOSTON : 
LEE    AND    SHEPARD,   PUBLISHERS. 

NEW   YORK: 
LEE,  SHEPARD  AND   DILLINGHAM. 

1874. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1872, 

BY  LEE  AND   SHEPARD, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington, 


«•        0 


Electrotyped  at  the  Boston  Stereotype  Foundry, 
No.  19  Spring  Lane, 


TO 

WILLIAM    LEE, 

AS    A    TRIBUTE    TO    THE    INTELLIGENCE,   UPRIGHTNESS, 

AND    LIBERALITY,    MANIFESTED     IN    HIS 

DEALINGS   WITH    AUTHORS, 

AND 

AS   A  RECOGNITION   OF   HIS   CONSTANT   FRIENDSHIP 
FOR    TWENTY    YEARS, 

^jjig  $0lunu  \% 

BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


M114682 


PREFACE. 


WHEN  the  first  volume  of  the  Hand-book  of  English 
Literature  was  published,  some  fifteen  months  ago,  it  was 
announced  that  a  second  volume,  devoted  to  American  au- 
thors, was  nearly  ready.  But  though  the  materials  had  been 
collected,  the  editor  soon  found  it  desirable  to  go  over  the 
ground  again  more  thoroughly,  and  to  consult  original  edi- 
tions in  all  cases  where  it  was  practicable.  The  labor  and 
perplexity  involved  in  making  the  selections,  and  in  furnish- 
ing biographical  and  critical  notices,  will  hardly  be  over-esti- 
mated. Much  of  the  labor  led  to  no  visible  results  ;  as,  when 
a  month's  diligent  reading  sometimes  failed  to  discover  more 
than  one  or  two  authors  that  should  be  represented  in  the 
collection. 

The  rule  of  selection  adopted,  though  clear  as  a  general 
principle,  is  one  that  admits  of  some  latitude  in  application, 
and  has  frequently  led  to  results  that  were  regretted  by  the 
editor.  Writers  of  acknowledged  genius  are  never  very 
numerous,  and  it  would  be  easy  to  make  a  small  collection 
that  would  be  considered  judicious  and  fair.  On  the  other 
hand;  if  it  were  desirable  to  make  a  new  and  complete  cyclo- 

v 


VI  PREFACE. 

paedia  of  our  literature,  the  delicate  choice  between  authors 
of  nearly  equal  rank  would  be  avoided.  It  appeared  to  the 
editor  that  a  collection,  to  be  useful  for  "  high  schools,  private 
students,  and  general  readers,"  should  be  fuller  than  an 
anthology,  and  should  exhibit  historically  the  growth  of  lit- 
erature in  its  various  departments  ;  but  it  was  not  considered 
necessary  to  include  in  its  pages  specimens  from  every  au- 
thor. This  Hand-book  is  accordingly  the  result  of  a  com- 
promise, and  is  believed  to  contain  as  large  a  quantity  of 
specimens  from  as  large  a  number  of  leading  and  represen- 
tative authors  as  could  be  printed  in  one  convenient  volume. 

The  age  and  capacity  of  those  who  are  most  likely  to  use 
the  work  have  been  kept  in  mind  ;  and  in  consequence  the 
editor  has  printed  some  extracts  (especially  from  philo- 
sophic writers)  which  are  not  the  highest  specimens  of  the 
powers  of  their  authors.  From  similar  considerations  some 
eminent  metaphysicans  have  not  been  represented  at  all, 
and  a  large  proportion  of  humorous  and  entertaining  arti- 
cles has  been 'chosen. 

Those  who  expect  to  find  this  a  compilation  of  altogether 
fresh  pieces  will  be  disappointed.  The  best  productions  of 
American  authors  are  almost  tediously  familiar.  Our  litera- 
ture is  like  our  edifices  —  so  new  that  there  is  no  chance  for 
a  forgotten  closet,  a  cobwebbed  garret,  or  a  dark,  vaulted 
cellar.  There  is  very  little  here  to  reward  the  labors  of  the 
literary  antiquary.  In  England,  where  five  centuries  of  accu- 
mulations fill  the  libraries,  the  case  is  different,  and  there  is 
room  for  variety  in  strictly  historical  collections  of  prose  and 
verse. 

A  friend  who  looked  over  the  proof  sheets  of  this  volume 
objected  to  the  insertion  of  Poe's  Raven,  because  it  had 


PREFACE.  Vll 

appeared  in  every  previous  collection,  and  was  thoroughly 
worn  out.  The  conversation  that  followed  will  serve  to 
illustrate  further  the  general  principle  of  selection  that  has 
been  referred  to. 

Put  in  Socratic  form,  it  stands  thus :  Is  Poe  an  author  who 
should  be  included  in  the  book?  Decidedly,  yes.  —  Is  he 
distinguished  in  poetry  or  in  prose?  Greatly  in  both.  —  First, 
as  to  his  poetry,  is  not  The  Raven  his  most  striking  poem  ? 
Certainly.  — And  shall  not  the  new  generations  have  the  best 
poem  of  each  author  to  read  when  it  is  practicable  to  print 
it?  I  suppose  they  should.  —  Is  the  fact,  then,  that  readers 
of  the  present  generation  have  grown  weary  of  its  iteration 
a  reason  for  omitting  it  ?  Probably  not.  —  Must  it  not  have 
a  place  in  an  historical  compilation?  Yes.  —  Next,  as  to  his 
prose,  what  does  the  bulk  of  it  consist  of?  Of  tales,  mostly 
of  a  marvellous  kind.  —  Are  any  of  them  of  proper  length 
for  this  book?  They  are  too  long.  —  Are  they  separable? 
No  ;  the  interest  is  wholly  in  the  development  of  the  plot. — 
Are  there  any  short  episodes,  either  of  description,  of  poeti- 
cal sentiment,  of  human  feeling,  or  of  moral  reflection,  that 
could  be  taken  so  that  each  could  stand  by  itself?  None 
worth  the  space  that  would  have  to  be  taken  from  other 
more  estimable  writers  of  prose.  —  Then  we  shall  allow  The 
Raven,  and  one  or  two  minor  pieces,  to  represent  Poe? 
Probably  that  will  be  best. 

With  this  illustration  the  editor  leaves  the  subject,  and 
prefers,  as  to  other  cases,  to  imitate  the  reticence  of  the 
judge  who  declined  to  give  his  reasons  for  a  decision  he 
had  made,  saying  he  knew  his  law  was  right,  although  his 
reasons  might  be  wrong.  The  editor  would  add  that  the 
results  here  presented,  including  the  critical  estimates  of 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

authors,  have  been  the  subject  of  careful  and  conscientious 
study. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  a  few  poems  are  printed  at  the  end 
of  the  collection  without  preliminary  biographical  notes. 
These  are  such  productions  as  the  editor  was  unwilling 
to  omit,  but  were  either  from  authors  who  had  not  written 
much  else  suited  to  his  purpose,  or  from  those  whose 
standing  has  yet  to  be  established. 

The  editor  has  made  frequent  use  of  Duyckinck's  Cyclo- 
paedia of  American  Literature,  Griswold's  Prose  Writers 
of  America,  and  Drake's  American  Biography,  and  other 
collections,  for  dates  and  other  matters  of  fact. 

He  desires  further  to  acknowledge  his  obligations  to 
Mr.  William  A.  Wheeler,  Assistant  Superintendent  of  the 
Boston  Public  Library,  for  aid  and  advice  in  making  re- 
searches ;  also  to  Mr.  John  S.  White,  Master  in  the  Latin 
School,  and  to  Dr.  Thomas  M.  Brewer,  for  valuable  notes. 

BOSTON,  July  15,  1872. 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION. 


THE  history  of  literature  in  the  United  States  is  naturally  divided 
into  three  periods,  corresponding  with  the  various  stages  of  the 
political,  commercial,  and  social  progress  of  the  country:  i.  The 
colonial  period,  from  the  first  settlements  to  near  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century ;  2.  The  revolutionary  period,  from  the  first 
awakening  of  the  spirit  of  independence  to  the  successful  issue  of 
the  struggle  and  the  peaceful  close  of  the  administration  of  Wash- 
ington ;  and  3.  The  period  of  national  development  in  which  we  are 
now  living. 

For  many  and  obvious  reasons  the  colonial  period  was  not  favor- 
able to  literature.  All  the  energies  of  the  early  settlers  were 
expended  in  felling  trees,  providing  shelter  from  the  elements, 
procuring  their  daily  food,  and  defending  their  families  from  the 
savages.  There  was  no  cessation  from  toil,  no  respite  from  danger. 
The  grand  scenery  of  the  unbroken  forests  created  no  sentiment  of 
admiration  in  the  minds  of  the  colonists.  They  were  not  landscapes 
to  be  mused  upon  in  poetic  reverie,  but  so  many  acres  of  stubborn 
woods  to  be  chopped  down  and  burned.  The  settler  found  the 
forest  his  enemy,  as  well  as  a  shelter  for  his  ambushed  foes  ;  and 
the  feeling  of  hostility  has  been  savagely  kept  up,  as  too  many  of  our 
bare,  windy  hills  and  arid  plains  attest.  The  noble  rivers,  fringed 
with  shrubs,  through  which  the  antlered  deer  pushed  their  way,  were 
regarded  less  as  mirrors  of  Nature's  beauty  than  as  obstructions  to 
travel  that  required  bridging.  The  painted  warrior  was  not  the 
picturesque  figure  of  woodland  romance,  as  in  the  novels  of  later 
days,  but  a  demon  with  a  torch,  tomahawk,  and  scalping-knife. 

ix 


X  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

There  was  little  scope  for  the  imagination,  as  an  element  of  litera- 
ture, in  the  midst  of  an  all-pervading  fear.  The  few  letters  sent  to 
friends  in  Old  England,  the  preachers'  notes  for  Sabbath  discourses, 
and  the  homely  annals  kept  by  secretaries  and  magistrates,  were  the 
principal  intellectual  performances  for  a  generation.  Not  that  there 
was  any  lack  of  ability  and  learning  among  the  colonists.  The  set- 
tlers .  of  Boston,  in  particular,  had  many  well-educated  men  among 
their  number ;  but  only  the  clergy  had  leisure  for  literary  culture, 
and  they  were,  for  the  most  part,  so  much  occupied  with  the  duties 
of  their  calling,  that  they  wrote  very  few  books  of  general  interest. 
It  was  truly  a  "  church  militant "  that  ruled  in  the  infant  colonies. 
Controversy  was  the  means  and  end  of  education.  The  very  air 
shivered  with  theological  subtilty.  The  feet  of  the  doubter  or  the 
debater  (on  the  wrong  side)  were  sooner  or  later  made  acquainted 
with  the  stocks,  or  with  the  lonely  ways  that  led  away'from  Chris- 
tian homes  into  the  depths  of  the  unpitying  wilderness,  or  the 
haunts  of  the  white  man's  pitiless  foe. 

The  department  of  dramatic  literature,  at  that  time  the  most  pro- 
lific of  any  in  the  language,  was  avoided  and  reprobated  by  the  Pu- 
ritans. The  stage  was  regarded  as  unchristian,  and  all  its  literature 
was  under  ban.  Prose  fiction  had  not  then  been  created.  Science 
was  but  just  awaking  from  the  sleep  of  centuries,  and  the  powerful 
influence  it  was  to  exert  on  letters  was  then  unsuspected.  A  little 
reflection  will  show  that  these  causes  were  sufficient  to  confine  the 
efforts  of  writers  in  a  comparatively  narrow  compass.  And  it  is 
not  to  be  forgotten  that  religion  had  a  constant  and  an  overwhelm- 
ing interest,  especially  with  educated  men,  so  that  all  other  topics 
seemed  trivial  and  barren  in  comparison. 

Therefore  let  us  be  just  to  the  memory  of  the  fathers.  They  had 
their  task,  and  they  accomplished  it.  Let  us  own  that  the  very  unlove- 
liness  of  their  temper,  the  severity  of  their  discipline,  and  their  diifain 
of  sentiment,  were  indispensable  to  the  great  work  of  founding  the 
colonies  on  an  enduring  basis  ;  and  that  if  they  had  come  here  to 
indite  poems  and  romances,  to  dream  of  Utopias  and  Arcadias,  and 
to  dance  around  Maypoles,  their  mention  in  history  would  have  been 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XI 

a  brief  one,  and  their  place  in  the  respect  of  mankind  far  different 
from  what  it  now  is. 

There  were  other  influences  unfavorable  to  the  growth  of  litera- 
ture, which  aifected  not  only  New  England,  but  the  other  colonies 
as  well.  There  were  few  libraries,  scanty  means  for  the  communi- 
cation of  ideas,  and  a  want  of  literary  centres.  These  indispensable 
elements  could  come  only  with  the  accumulation  of  wealth,  the 
establishment  of  social  order,  and  the  opportunity  for  leisure.  But 
the  greatest  obstacle  was  in  the  very  condition  of  the  people  as  colo- 
nists. They  were  Englishmen,  but  without  a  country.  They  had 
left  the  society,  traditions,  and  history  which  made  them  proud  of 
their  lineage,  and  they  had  nothing,  so  far,  as  a  substitute  for  these 
sources  of  inspiration. 

Daniel  Webster,  speaking  of  the  British  empire,  said,  "  She  has 
dotted  the  whole  surface  of  the  globe  with  her  possessions  and  mili- 
tary posts,  whose  morning  drum-beat  following  the  sun,  and  keeping 
company  with  the  hours,  circles  the  earth  daily  with  one  continuous 
and  unbroken  strain  of  the  martial  airs  of  England."  But  where  in 
that  majestic  round  will  you  find  any  English  literature  in  any  colony 
that  is  still  a  colony,  which  does  not  depend  upon  the  favorable 
judgment  of  English  critics,  and  derive  its  support  from  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  British  isles  ? 

"  Who  reads  an  American  book  ?  "  was  the  scornful  question  that 
was  asked  about  us  some  forty  years  ago  by  Sydney  Smith  ;  but  who 
has  seen  or  read  the  literature  of  Montreal,  Quebec,  or  Halifax  ? 
of  Calcutta  or  Bombay  ?  of  Melbourne,  Cape  Town,  Dunedin,  or 
Hong  Kong  ?  Whatever  buds  of  genius  appear  in  those  distant 
outposts  of  British  civilization  are  transplanted  to  bloom  in  the 
heart  of  the  empire.  Literature,  like  the  vine,  requires  something 
stable  to  cling  to,  and  grows  greenest  when  it  adorns  the  structures 
and  institutions  that  are  venerable  for  their  antiquity  or  for  their 
patriotic  associations. 

Our  early  literature  is  interesting  only  to  antiquarians  and  stu- 
dents of  church  history  :  there  were  few  books  written  in  America 
during  the  seventeenth  century  which  the  readers  of  our  day,  espe- 


Xll  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

cially  the  younger  ones,  would  peruse,  except  as  a  task.  This  is  set 
down  with  a  knowledge  of  the  value  of  Winthrop's  Journal  and  Let- 
ters, of  Bradford's  History  of  the  Plymouth  Colony,  of  Wood's  New 
England  Prospect,  of  Cotton  Mather's  laborious  ecclesiastical  his- 
tory, of  Ward's  quaint  pamphlet,  and  some  other  works,  as  founda- 
tions. 

The  first  book  printed  in  America  was  the  Bay  Psalm  Book, 
compiled  by  the  apostle  Eliot,  aided  by  Rev.  Richard  Mather 
and  Rev.  Thomas  Weld.  The  work  was  done  by  Stephen 
Daye,  in  1640,  at  Cambridge,  on  a  press  set  up  in  the  president's 
house.  He  was  remembered  for  his  work  by  the  government.  In 
the  Records  of  the  Colony,  December,  1641,  may  be  seen  an  order 
in  these  words  :  "  Stephen  Daye,  being  the  first  that  set  upon  print- 
ing, is  allowed  three  hundred  acres  of  land  where  it  may  be  con- 
venient, without  prejudice  to  any  town."  Not  much  can  be  said  in 
favor  of  the  poetry  of  the  Bay  Psalm  Book.  The  verses  have  but 
little  grace,  and  less  melody.  As  a  sample  of 

"  The  stretched  metre  of  an  antique  song," 

we  give  some  lines,  in  vphich  David  bewails  his  desolate  condition. 

From  Psalm  Ixxxviii. 
Thy  fierce  wrath  over  mee  doth  goe, 
thy  terrors  they  doe  mee  difmay, 
Encompafle  mee  about  they  doe, 
clofe  mee  together  all  the  day. 
Lover  &  friend  a  far  thou  haft 
removed  off  away  from  mee, 
&  mine  acquaintance  thou  haft  caft 
into  darkfom  obfcuritee. 


From  Psalm  civ. 

For  beafts  hee  makes  the  grafle  to  grow, 
herbs  alfo  for  mans  good : 
that  hee  may  bring  out  of  the  earth 
what  may  be  for  their  food: 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION.  Xlll 

Wine  alfo  that  mans  heart  may  glad, 

&  oyle  their  face  to  bright : 

and  bread  which  to  the  heart  of  man 

may  it  fupply  with  might. 

Gods  trees  are  fappy :  his  planted 

Cedars  of  Lebanon : 

Where  birds  doe  neft :  as  for  the  Storke, 

Firres  are  her  manfion. 

The  wilde  Goates  refuge  are  the  hills: 

rocks  Conies  doe  inclofe. 

The  Moone  hee  hath  for  feafons  fet, 

the  Sun  his  felting  knows. 

Not  more  than  half  a  dozen  copies  of  the  original  edition  of  this 
book  are  known  to  be  extant. 

The  Journal  and  Letters  of  Governor  Winthrop  are  more  interest- 
ing in  matter  and  more  simple  and  effective  in  manner  than  any 
works  that  have  been  preserved  of  this  period.  The  Journal  is  at 
once  a  history  of  the  church,  town,  and  colony.  We  give  a  short 
specimen  from  his  defence,  made  after  the  election  of  Governor 
Thomas  Dudley. 

"  The  great  questions  that  have  troubled  the  country,  are  about 
the  authority  of  the  magistrates  and  the  liberty  of  the  people.  It  is 
yourselves  that  have  called  us  to  this  office,  and,  being  called  by 
you,  we  have  our  authority  from  God,  in  the  way  of  an  ordinance, 
such  as  hath  the  image  of  God  eminently  stamped  upon  it,  the  con- 
tempt and  violation  whereof  hath  been  vindicated  with  examples  of 
divine  vengeance.  I  entreat  you  to  consider,  that  when  you  choose 
magistrates,  you  take  them  from  among  yourselves,  men  subject  to 
like  passions  as  you  are.  Therefore  when  you  see  infirmities  in  us, 
you  should  reflect  upon  your  own,  and  that  would  make  you  bear 
the  more  with  us,  and  not  be  severe  censurers  of  the  failings  of  your 
magistrates  when  you  have  continual  experience  of  the  like  infirmi- 
ties in  yourselves  and  others." 

His  letters  contain  many  beautiful  passages.  We  print  an  extract 
from  his  farewell  to  his  wife,  when  about  starting  to  this  country. 

"  It  goeth  very  near  my  heart  to  leave  thee  ;  but  I  know  to  whom 
I  have  committed  thee,  even  to  him  who  loves  thee  much  better  than 


XIV  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

any  husband  can,  who  hath  taken  account  of  the  hairs  of  thy  head, 
and  puts  all  thy  tears  in  his  bottle,  who  can,  and  (if  it  be  for  his 
glory)  will,  bring  us  together  again  with  peace  and  comfort.  O,  how 
it  refresheth  my  heart  to  think  that  I  shall  yet  again  see  thy  sweet 
face  in  the  land  of  the  living  !  —  that  lovely  countenance  that  I  have 
so  much  delighted  in  and  beheld  with  so  great  content.  .  .  . 
Yet  if  all  these  hopes  should  fail,  blessed  be  our  God  that  we  are 
assured  we  shall  meet  one  day,  if  not  as  husband  and  wife,  yet  in  a 
better  condition.  Let  that  stay  and  comfort  thy  heart.  Neither  can 
the  sea  drown  thy  husband,  nor  enemies  destroy,  nor  any  adversity 
deprive  thee  of  thy  husband  or  children.  Therefore  I  will  only  take 
thee  now  and  my  sweet  children  in  mine  arms,  and  kiss  and  embrace 
you  all,  and  so  leave  you  with  my  God.  Farewell !  farewell ! 

The  "  Simple  Cobler  of  Aggawam,"  by  the  Rev.  Nathaniel  Ward, 
of  Ipswich,  written  in  1645,  and  printed  in  London  in  1647,  is  a  pro- 
duction very  characteristic  of  the  times.  It  contains  a  satire  upon 
the  prevailing  extravagance  of  women's  dress  (a  theme  not  wholly 
obsolete  yet),  a  furious  attack  upon  the  toleration  of  theological 
errors,  some  counsel  to  the  English  people  upon  the  civil  war  then 
beginning,  two  or  three  vigorous  and  sensible  letters  to  King 
Charles  I.,  and  various  shots  at  the  Baptists  and  lesser  sectaries 
that  disturbed  the  serenity  of  the  colony.  This  is  a  sentence  of  his 
upon  allowing  freedom  of  religious  opinions  :  — 

"  I  dare  averre  that  God  doth  no  where  in  his  word  tolerate  Chris- 
tian States  to  give  Tolerations  to  such  adversaries  of  his  Truth,  if 
they  have  power  in  their  hands  to  suppresse  them." 

Here  is  another  sentence  in  the  author's  favorite  style  :  "  Truth 
does  not  grow  old  (non  senescit  veritas).  No  man  ever  saw  a  gray 
hair  on  the  head  or  beard  of  any  Truth,  wrinkle  or  morphew  on  its 
face  ;  the  bed  of  Truth  is  green  all  the  year  long." 

The  title  of  the  "  Simple  Cobler  "  is  a  misnomer,  for  the  author 
is  neither  simple  nor  amusing,  but  is  painfully  pedantic ;  his  sen- 
tences are  crammed  with  Latin,  and  he  delights  in  barbarous  words 
of  his  own  coining.  In  striving  for  wit  he  seldom  gets  farther  than  a 
play  upon  words.  For  example,  read  the  following :  — 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XV 

"  It  is  a  more  common  than  convenient  saying,  that  nine  Taylors 
make  a  man  ;  it  were  well  if  nineteene  could  make  a  woman  to  her 
minde :  if  Taylors  were  men  indeed,  well  furnished  but  with  meer 
morall  principles,  they  would  disdain  to  be  led  about  like  Apes  by 
such  mymick  Marmosets.  It  is  a  most  unworthy  thing  for  men  that 
have  bones  in  them  to  spend  their  lives  in  making  fidle-cases  for 
futilous  womens  phansies,  which  are  the  very  pettitoes  of  infirmity, 
the  gyblets  of  perquisquilian  toyes." 

But,  in  spite  of  all  these  evident  blemishes,  the  "  Simple  Cobler", 
was  a  vigorous  writer,  with  a  power  of  clear  statement,  and  no  lack 
of  forcible  illustration. 

One  sentence  of  his  shows  that  he  appreciated  the  critic's  func- 
tion. In  these  days,  when  the  bobolink  is  reproached  because  it  is 
not  an  eagle,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  quote  :  "  It  is  musick  to  me  to 
heare  every  Dity  speak  its  spirit  in  its  apt  tune  ;  every  breast  to  sing 
its  proper  part,  and  every  creature  to  expresse  itself  in  its  naturall 
note  ;  should  I  heare  a  Mouse  roare  like  a  Beare,  a  Cat  lowgh  like 
an  Oxe,  or  a  Horse  whistle  like  a  Redbreast,  it  would  scare 
—  mee." 

Mistress  Anne  Bradstreet,  daughter  of  Governor  Thomas  Dud- 
ley, and  wife  of  Simon  Bradstreet,  secretary  of  the  colony,  wrote  a 
volume  of  poems  that  was  printed  in  1647,  and  seems  to  have  excited 
great  admiration.  Mrs.  Bradstreet  was  a  learned  woman,  and  ap- 
pears to  have  aimed  at  putting  a  compendium  of  what  was  known 
of  history,  philosophy,  and  'religion,  into  ten-syllabled  verse. 
First  comes  a  dialogue  between  "  the  four  elements  "  personified, 
Earth,  Air,  Fire,  and  Water ;  next,  one  between  "  the  four  humors  " 
in  the  constitution  of  man,  Choler,  Blood,  Melancholy,  and  Phlegm. 
Then  appear  "  the  four  ages  of  man,"  "  the  four  seasons  of  the 
year,"  and  "  the  four  monarchies  of  the  world  "  (the  Assyrian,  Per- 
sian, Grecian,  and  Roman).  New  and  Old  England  next  discourse 
together  upon  the  civil  war  then  arising  between  the  king  and  the 
Commons ;  and  then  a  collection  of  elegies  and  epitaphs  ends  the 
book. 

It  would  seem  that  some  discussion  had  taken  place,  even  at  that 


XVI  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

early  day,  upon  the  proper  sphere  of  woman,  for  Mistress  Anne 
says,  — 

"I  am  obnoxious  to  each  carping  tongue 

Who  says  my  hand  a  needle  better  fits, 
A  poet's  pen  all  scorn  I  should  thus  wrong, 

For  such  despite  they  cast  on  Female  wits : 
If  what  I  do  prove  well,  it  won't  advance, 
They'll  say  it's  stoPn,  or  else  it  was  by  chance." 

We  print  a  few  lines  from  "  An  Elegie  upon  that  Honourable  and 
renowned  Knight,  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  who  was  untimely  slain  at  the 
Siege  of  Zutphen,  Anno  1586." 

"When  England  did  enjoy  her  Halsion  dayes 
Her  noble  Sidney  wore  the  Crown  of  Bayes  : 
As  well  an  honour  to  our  British  Land 
As  she  that  sway'd  the  scepter  with  her  hand. 
Mars  and  Minerva  did  in  one  agree, 
Of  Arms  and  Arts  he  should  a  pattern  be, 
Calliope  with  Terpsichore  did  sing, 
Of  Poesie  and  of  Musick  he  was  King. 

"O,  brave  Achilles,  I  wish  some  Homer  would  * 
Engrave  in  Marble  with  Characters  of  gold 
The  valiant  feats  thou  didst  on  Flanders  coast, 
Which  at  this  day  fair  Belgia  may  boast. 
The  more  I  say  the  more  thy  worth  I  stain, 
Thy  fame  and  praise  are  far  beyond  my  strain. 
O,  Z^ttphen,  Zutphen,  that  most  fatal  city, 
Made  famous  by  thy  death,  much  more  the  pity : 
Ah,  in  his  blooming  prime  death  pluckt  this  rose, 
Ere  he  was  ripe  his  thread  cut  Atropos." 

It  is  quite  needless  to  observe  that  Mrs.  Bradstreet's  poems  are 
rather  hard  reading,  and  that  the  patient  gleaner  will  find  few  blos- 
soms among  all  the  briery  sheaves. 

Let  us  turn  to  a  great  name  in  New  England  history  —  to  Cotton 
Mather,  who  above  all  men  was  an  epitome  of  the  learning,  the  theo- 
logical subtilty,  the  political  opinions,  and  the  credulity  of  the 

*  The  rhyme  would  seem  to  indicate  that  the  sound  of  1  in  "  would"  had  not  then 
wholly  silent. 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XV11 

age.  His  family  might  almost  bo  called  Levitical,  since  ten  mem- 
bers of  it  within  three  generations  were  settled  ministers  of 
the  gospel  in  Massachusetts.  He  was  the  son  of  a  venerated 
clergyman,  and  may  be  said  to  have  had  his  nurture  and  train- 
ing in  the  sanctuary.  His  industry  as  a  writer  was  amaz- 
ing, his  published  works  —  chiefly  sermons  and  memoirs — being 
three  hundred  and  eighty-two  in  number.  His  principal  work  is 
commonly  called  the  "  Magnalia  ;  "  its  full  title  is  "  Magnalia  Christi 
Americana,"  the  meaning  of  which  is  best  expressed  by  a  para- 
phrase, "  the  great  things  wrought  by  Christ  for  the  American 
church."  It'contains  a  detailed  account  of  the  settlement  of  the 
New  England  colonies ;  lives  of  the  governors,  other  magistrates, 
and  clergy  ;  the  principal  events  in  the  Indian  and  French  wars  ;  a 
treatise  upon  special  providences,  including  a  great  number  of  ac- 
counts of  God's  judgments  by  shipwreck,  lightning,  and  sudden 
death,  and  narratives  of  the  trials  for  witchcraft  in  Salem  and  else- 
where. 

The  general  tone  of  the  work  makes  a  painful  impression  upon 
the  mind ;  nor  is  the  pervading  gloom  relieved  by  the  intended 
amenities  of  style.  Scraps  of  Latin,  Greek,  or  Hebrew  sprinkle 
nearly  every  page.  Quotations  of  heathen  poetry  are  forced  into 
unhappy  association  with  polemical  theology,  in  a  way  almost  to 
recall  Virgil  and  his  fellow  Romans  from  the  shades  to  claim  their 
own.  And  the  narration,  though  intelligible  enough,  often  hobbles 
along  until  the  reader  fancies  himself  jolting  over  some  of  the  dread- 
ful roads  that  crossed  the  ancient  wilderness.  After  the  fashion  of  the 
time  he  indulges  in  never-ending  quibbles  and  puns.  In  his  contro- 
versy with  Mr.  Calef  he  must  shorten  his  name  to  calf.  In  mentioning 
President  Oakes  he  hopes  he  will  be  transplanted  to  the  heavenly 
pasture,  and  he  speaks  of  the  students  under  him  as  young  Druids. 
Three  clergymen  came  over  in  the  same  vessel,  named  Cotton, 
Hooker,  and  Stone.  Mather  said  the  people  had  now  something 
for  each  of  their  three  great  necessities —  Cotton  for  their  clothing, 
Hooker  for  their  fishing,  and  Stone  for  their  building.  He  after- 
wards calls  the  latter  a  gem,  then  a  flinty  and  then  a  lode  stone.  In 
b 


XV111  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

the  epitaph  upon  Francis  Higginson  the  passer-by  is  admonished 
to  be  of  this  order  of  Franciscans.  In  the  life  of  Ralph  Partridge 
we  see  him  hunted  by  Episcopal  beak  and  claw  upon  the  mountains 
until  he  makes  a  flight  to  America. 

As  Cotton  Mather  was  a  man  of  uncommon  ability  and  learning, 
it  is  a  matter  of  some  difficulty  to  state  the  reasons  why  he  occupies 
a  place  so  much  lower  in  literary  than  in  ecclesiastical  annals.  What 
is  said  of  him  will  apply,  with  some  qualification,  to  other  writers 
of  his  time.  Parables,  emblems,  and  metaphors  were  the  prevail- 
ing fashion,  both  in  England  and  America.  To  use  this  pictorial 
style  effectively  and  with  taste,  requires  an  instinctive  judgment  and 
sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  which  few  men  in  a  generation  possess. 
Speakers  and  writers  who  are  in  the  habit  of  employing  figurative 
language,  are  apt  to  leave  sentences  with  lame  conclusions,  because 
it  is  not  every  illustration  that  can  be  carried  out  to  a  symmetrical 
close.  The  image  that  rises  to  the  mind  is  often  like  that  seen  by 
the  prophet  in  vision,  of  which  though  the  countenance  was  golden, 
the  feet  were  of  clay. 

Michael  Wigglesworth  was  the  author  of  The  Day  of  Doom,  or  a 
Poetical  Description  of  the  Great  and  Last  Judgment,  with  a  short 
Discourse  about  Eternity,  and  other  pieces.  This  work  was  very 
successful  at  the  time,  owing  more  to  the  subject  and  to  the  religious 
character  of  the  colonists  than  to  the  merit  of  the  verses.  The  style 
is  rugged  and  tasteless,  and  if  we  should  give  any  specimens,  even 
the  best,  it  might  be  considered  as  tending  to  bring  sacred  things 
into  ridicule. 

Wood's  New  England  Prospect  is  a  lively  description  of  the  coun- 
try and  its  resources,  written  in  both  prose  and  verse.  It  hardly 
belongs  to  our  literature,  as  the  author  printed  it  in  London  in  1634, 
after  a  very  brief  residence  in  the  colony,  and  it  is  doubtful  whether 
he  ever  returned  here. 

There  were  many  learned  and  able  men  among  the  New  England 
clergy,  such  as  Thomas  Hooker,  Thomas  Shepard,  John  Eliot,  and 
John  Cotton  ;  but  their  works  belong  to  the  history  of  theology. 

The  Plymouth  Colony  was  even  less  fruitful  in  literature  than  the 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

Colony  of  the  Bay.  The  latter  had  a  very  large  number  of  graduates 
of  old  Cambridge  and  Oxford  among  its  magistrates  and  clergy. 
But  if  the  settlers  of  Plymouth  were  less  educated,  they  were  more 
tolerant,  charitable,  and  amiable.  The  annals  of  the  Old  Colony 
were  written  by  its  governor,  William  Bradford ;  later,  Nathaniel 
Morton  wrote  New  England's  Memorial,  based  on  Bradford's  His- 
tory, and  including  contemporary  elegies  and  anecdotes.  Roger 
Williams,  who  has  the  honor  of  being  the  first  advocate  of  liberty  of 
conscience,  was  the  author  of  controversial  tracts  only. 

The  peculiar  genius  of  the  Puritans  seems  to  have  attained  its  high- 
est development  in  Jonathan  Edwards,  who  was  born  in  East  Wind- 
sor, Conn.,  in  1703,  graduated  at  Yale  College,  and  settled  as  preacher 
in  Northampton,  Mass.  He  was  an  original  metaphysician,  equal 
in  sustained  power  and  in  clear-sightedness  to  any  modern  investi- 
gator. His  works  are  masterpieces  of  abstract  reasoning,  written 
for  thinkers,  and  are  as  abstruse  and  technical  as  treatises  upon  the 
higher  mathematics. 

Thomas  Hutchinson  was  the  author  of  a  History  of  Massachu- 
setts during  the  period  from  1620  to  1691  — a  very  well  written,  and, 
in  the  main,  trustworthy  work.  It  was  based  upon  original  memoirs, 
and  is  regarded  as  an  authority,  but,  further  than  that,  it  calls  for  no 
special  mention. 

In  any  just  account  of  our  literature,  the  influence  of  Harvard 
College  must  have  a  prominent  place.  Founded  in  1636  as  a  semi- 
nary for  religious  teachers,  it  shared  the  poverty  of  the  New  Eng- 
land colonies  in  their  day  of  small  things  ;  but  it  grew  with  their 
growth,  and  was  ready  to  act  its  part  on  the  larger  field  which 
spread  with  the  increase  of  wealth  and  the  demand  for  higher  cul- 
ture. For  the  first  century  its  standard  of  scholarship  was  not  very 
high,  but  its  influence  was  constant  and  cumulative.  By  the  end 
of  the  eighteenth  century  there  was  an  army  of  its  graduates  in  the 
learned  professions,  and  every  one  communicated  something  of  the 
spirit  of  his  alma  mater  to  the  society  of  his  neighborhood.  Later 
came  Yale,  William  and  Mary,  Princeton,  and  Union  Colleges,  all 
centres  of  active  influences. 


XX  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

The  literary  history  of  the  Colony  of  Virginia  does  not  begin  until 
a  later  period.  The  story  of  its  discovery  and  early  settlement  was 
written  by  the  famous  .Captain  John  Smith,  who  was  not  permanently 
identified  with  its  interests,  but  returned  to  England.  A  few  expa- 
triated Englishmen  of  a  classical  turn  amused  themselves  by  making 
Latin  translations,  that  afterwards  appeared  in  London  ;  but  there 
was  no  printing  press  to  strike  off,  no  booksellers  to  publish,  no 
public  to  read  or  enjoy  literature,  in  Virginia.  Bancroft,  under  the 
date  of  1674,  says,  "The  generation  now  in  existence  were  chiefly 
the  fruit  of  the  soil ;  they  were  children  of  the  woods,  nurtured  in 
the  freedom  of  the  wilderness,  and  dwelling  in  lonely  cottages,  scat- 
tered along  the  streams.  No  newspapers  entered  their  houses  ;  no 
printing  press  furnished  them  a  book.  They  had  no  recreations  but 
such  as  Nature  provides  in  her  wilds,  no  education  but  such  as 
parents  in  the  desert  could  give  their  offspring." 

Elsewhere  the  historian  mentions  the  boast  of  the  governor,  Sir 
William  Berkeley,  that  there  was  not  a  printing  press  in  all  Virginia. 

In  Pennsylvania  there  was  liberty  of  the  press,  but  the  influence 
of  Quakerism  was  even  less  favorable  to  literature  than  Puritanism 
had  been.  And,  besides,  there  was  no  college  like  Harvard  in 
Penn's  otherwise  thriving  colony. 

In  New  York  the  mixed  origin  of  the  people,  the  succession  of 
conflicting  governments,  and  other  circumstances,  kept  back  the 
development  of  literature  until  a  comparatively  recent  period. 

With  the  growing  discontent  of  the  colonies,  the  literature  of  the 
eighteenth  century  began  to  assume  a  new  phase.  Those  who  were 
engaged  in  manufactures  and  commerce  began  to  demand  freedom 
of  action.  The  clergy,  except  the  members  of  the  English  church, 
were  universally  active  in  resisting  the  royal  claims  over  the  colo- 
nies. The  sense  of  wrong  indited  petitions  to  Parliament,  and 
stimulated  discussion  upon  the  duties  of  rulers  and  the  rights  of 
their  subjects.  Slowly  new  theories  were  evolved.  Some  thinkers, 
like  Jefferson  and  Paine,  had  pondered  over  the  doctrines  of  Rous- 
seau and  other  French  philosophers.  Others,  like  Franklin,  Quincy, 
Otis,  and  the  Adamses,  had  been  applying  the  reasoning  of  Hamp- 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XXI 

den  and  the  English  patriots  to  the  case  of  the  colonies.  It  was  a 
period  of  great  intellectual  activity,  but  of  activity  directed  exclusively 
to  one  subject.  Of  general  literature,  whether  history,  essay,  poem, 
or  story,  the  country  was  almost  barren.  Besides  the  works  of  a 
few  well-known  writers,  and  the  printed  sermons  (of  which  great 
numbers  doubtless  remain  in  country  parsonages  for  future  ex- 
plorers), the  intellectual  efforts  of  the  period  were  entirely  ephemeral. 
Not  a  line  of  the  brilliant  speeches  of  James  Otis  remains ;  not  a 
syllable  of  the  eloquence  of  Patrick  Henry ;  none  of  the  massive 
arguments  of  John  Adams.  The  energies  of  men  were  spent  in 
action.  The  fancies  of  the  poet  and  the  arts  of  the  rhetorician  were 
laid  aside  with  the  scholar's  gown.  Men  lived  poems,  radiated  elo- 
quence, and  exemplified  philosophy. 

The  cause  of  liberty  in  America  was  indebted  probably  more  to 
Thomas  Paine  than  to  any  writer  of  the  time.  His  Common 
Sense,  which  was  published  in  January,  1776,  says  Dr.  Rush, 
"burst  upon  the  world  with  an  effect  which  has  rarely  been  pro- 
duced by  types  and  paper,  in  any  age  or  country."  In  December, 
of  the  same  year,  when  the  utmost  depression  prevailed,  the  first 
number  of  his  Crisis  appeared.  The  first  sentence  has  been  "famil- 
iar in  our  mouths  as  household  words  "  ever  since  :  "  These  are  the 
times  that  try  men's  souls."  This  was  read  at  the  head  of  every 
regiment,  and  revived  the  drooping  spirits  of  the  troops.  The  im- 
partial historian  must  declare  that  liberty  owes  nearly  as  much  to 
the  courageous  advocacy  of  Paine  as  to  the  military  services  of 
Washington. 

Unless  we  feel  an  interest  in  the  causes  that  led  to  the  revolu- 
tionary war,  and  in  the  arguments  by  which  the  patriotic  fathers 
upheld  their  action,  we  shall  not  need  to  dwell  long  on  this  period. 
As  in  all  times  of  excitement,  ballads,  songs,  and  versified  gibes 
were  quite  plenty,  and  those  who  are  fond  of  this  species  of  litera- 
ture will  find  a  collection  of  them  in  Duyckinck's  Cyclopaedia.  Be- 
sides these,  there  were  the  verses  of  Phillis  Wheatley,  a  negro 
woman,  sold  as  a  slave,  and  educated  in  Bostofi,  —  verses 
that  were  remarkable  considering  the  birth  and  education  of 


XX11  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

the  authoress,  but  of  little  positive  value  to-day.  There  was  one 
other  author  who  has  some  claims  upon  our  consideration  — 
Philip  Freneau.  He  was  an  active,  not  to  say  virulent,  political 
writer,  and  the  author  of  many  poems.  His  prose  works  are  no 
longer  interesting,  and  his  poems  have  been  so  completely  eclipsed 
in  later  times  that  they  are  seldom  read.  The  Indian  Burying 
Ground,  on  page  593,  contains  the  best  lines  we  have  been  able  to 
find  in  his  poems. 

Mention  should  be  made  of  Alexander  Wilson,  the  ornithologist, 
a  man  of  brilliant  parts,  devoted  to  his  chosen  pursuits,  and  a  master 
of  a  beautiful  style  of  writing.  He  will  always  share  the  regard  of 
the  world  with  his  great  contemporary,  Audubon. 

The  Federalist  is  the  name  of  a  series  of  papers,  written  chiefly 
by  James  Madison  and  Alexander  Hamilton,  upon  the  Constitution 
of  this  country.  The  work  is  an  invaluable  one  to  lawyers  and 
statesmen,  and  should  not  be  overlooked  by  the  student  of  history. 

The  prominent  novelist  of  the  last  century  was  Charles  Brockden 
Brown,  born  in  Philadelphia  in  1771.  He  was  a  man  of  unques- 
tioned ability,  and  will  have  a  place  in  all  histories  of  our  literature. 
His  novels,  however,  are  formed  upon  the  model  of  William  God- 
win's Caleb  Williams,  and,  though  powerful  and  absorbing  in  in- 
terest, are  at  the  same  time  repulsive  to  the  last  degree.  The  hero 
is  always  involved  in  the  meshes  of  fate,  either  the  witness  or  the 
victim  of  unspeakable  atrocities,  which  no  human  foresight  could 
avert.  The  influence  of  such  morbid  productions  is  neither  exhila- 
rating nor  improving,  and  for  that  reason  we  have  made  no  extracts 
from  them  in  this  volume,  but  refer  the  reader  to  the  cyclopaedias. 

William  Clifton,  born  in  Philadelphia  in  1772,  was  possessed  of 
fine  poetical  powers,  and  has  left  many  agreeable  poems,  which  barely 
miss  excellence.  In  a  larger  collection  he  would  be  sure  of  a  place. 

There  will  always  be  a  charm  in  the  prose  of  Franklin  ;  Jefferson 
will  always  have  some  readers,  and  students  of  history  may  pore 
over  the  writings  of  a  few  other  contemporary  authors  ;  but  our  liter- 
ature has  its  real  beginning  with  BRYANT  and  IRVING.  When 
Thanatopsis  was  printed  in  the  North  American  Review,  and  The 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XX111 

Sketch  Book  was  printed  in  New  York,  the  day  of  commonplace 
rhymes,  and  of  dull  and  pedantic  essayists,  was  done. 

It  is  proper,  however,  that  we  should  mention  the  names  of  a  few 
literary  periodicals,  which  were  published  near  the  beginning  of  this 
century.  They  do  not  contain  many  articles  of  permanent  value, 
but  their  influence  was  powerful  in  moulding  the  public  taste,  and  in 
preparing  the  way  for  the  authors  who  were  to  follow.  Among  the 
first,  and  by  far  the  best,  of  these  early  magazines,  was  The  Farmer's 
Museum,  established  in  Walpole,  N.  H.,  in  1793,  by  Isaiah  Thomas 
and  David  Carlisle.  Among  its  early  contributors  was  Joseph  Den- 
nie,  a  native  of  Boston,  and  a  graduate  of  Harvard  College,  who  in 
1796  became  the  responsible  editor,  and  who  called  to  his  aid  a  circle 
of  the  brighest  wits  and  best  writers  of  the  time.  Royal  Tyler, 
Thomas  G.  Fessenden,  David  Everett,  and  Isaac  Story  were  among 
the  corps.  Dennie,  among  other  things,  wrote  a  series  of  pleasant 
essays,  entitled  The  Lay  Preacher,  which  were  very  much  admired. 
In  1799  he  removed  to  Philadelphia,  and  the  next  year  commenced 
a  literary  periodical  in  that  city  called  The  Port  Folio,  edited  by 
Oliver  Olclschool.  This  was  devoted  to  belles  lettres  and  criticism, 
and  was  addressed  wholly  to  cultivated  readers.  It  contained  elab- 
orate treatises  upon  the  poems  of  Gray  and  others,  and  many  of  the 
poems  and  epigrams  printed  in  its  columns  were  in  French  or  Span- 
ish. Thomas  Moore,  who  was  then  living  in  the  United  States,  con- 
tributed original  poems  for  its  pages.  Dennie  died  about  the  end 
of  the  year  1811,  but  The  Port  Folio  was  continued  under  the  man- 
agement of  other  editors  until  '1827.  The  essays  of  The  Lay 
Preacher  were  collected  in  a  volume  published  at  Walpole  in  1796, 
and  another  edition  appeared  in  Philadelphia  in  1817 ;  but  the  work 
has  now  fallen  into  almost  total  neglect. 

There  was  an  earlier  venture,  the  American  Museum,  started  in 
Philadelphia,  in  1787,  by  Matthew  Carey,  an  Irish  emigrant.  This 
was  a  meritorious  and  useful  periodical,  but  could  hardly  be  styled 
literary.  It  was  a  repository  of  old  and  new  matter,  chiefly  designed 
for  the  instruction  of  the  people  in  domestic  .economy  and  in  their 
practical  duties  under  the  new  constitution.  The  editor,  among 


XXIV  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

other  things,  reprinted  Thomas  Paine's  Common  Sense,  Trumbull's 
McFingal,  and  a  rather  tedious  poem  by  David  Humphreys.  The 
undertaking  appears  to  have  had  the  valuable  aid  of  Benjamin 
Franklin  and  of  Dr.  Benjamin  Rush.  The  Museum  was  continued 
until  1799. 

Another  magazine  was  published  in  Philadelphia  from  1803  to 
1808,  conducted,  with  considerable  ability,  by  the  celebrated  novel- 
ist, Charles  Brockden  Brown.  It  was  called  The  Literary  Magazine 
and  American  Register.  In  1813  The  Analectic  Magazine  was 
commenced  in  Philadelphia,  remembered  chiefly  as  being  edited  by 
Washington  Irving.  This  was  mainly  a  compilation  from  foreign 
sources,  although  Irving  wrote  for  it  several  able  critical  articles  and 
biographies  of  naval  commanders. 

Isaiah  Thomas,  already  mentioned  in  connection  with  The  Farm- 
er's Museum,  published  The  Massachusetts  Magazine  from  1789  to 
1796. 

In  New  York,  in  1811,  was  published  The  American  Review, 
edited  by  Robert  Walsh.  This  was  the  first  quarterly  established 
in  this  country.  It  continued  for  two  years  only. 

One  other  magazine  in  this  period  deserves  mention,  and  that  is 
The  Monthly  Anthology,  issued  in  Boston  from  1803  to  1811.  It 
was  founded  by  a  club  (first  of  the  series  of  Mutual  Admiration 
Societies  of  the  city)  purely  for  the  love  of  literature.  It  was  con- 
ducted without  reward,  and  the  printer  was  magnanimously  paid  by 
the  contributors.  It  numbered  among  its  members  Rev.  William 
Emerson,  father  of  the  essayist  'and  poet,  Judge  William  Tudor, 
author  of  the  Life  of  James  Otis,  Rev.  William  E.  Channing,  the 
famous  preacher  and  essayist,  Richard  H.  Dana,  the  poet,  Dr.  J.  C. 
Warren,  Dr.  James  Jackson,  Dr.  J.  S.  J.  Gardiner,  and  others.  To 
this  club  Boston  owes  the  Athenaeum  Library,  and  Gallery.  There 
are  valuable  critical  and  didactic  articles  in  the  Anthology,  but  it 
would  not  be  considered  a  very  brilliant  magazine  in  our  clay.  We 
give  an  extract  from  a  poem  by  Thomas  Paine  (not  the  Thomas  of 
the  Age  of  Reason  and  the  Rights  of  Man,  but  a  Boston  Thomas, 
who  afterwards  had  his  name  changed  to  Robert  Treat  Paine,  Jr., 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XXV 

because  he  had  not,  he  said,  a  Christian  name).  The  poem  was 
delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  at  Cambridge  in  1797, 
and  the  reviewer  in  the  Anthology,  without  rating  it  very  high,  con- 
sidered that  the  poem,  on  the  whole,  was  the  best  that  had  been 
written  in  the  country  at  that  time. 

[Frcm  The  Ruling  Passion.] 
"To  fame  unknown,  to  happier  fortune  born, 
The  blythe  SAVOYARD  hails  the  peep  of  morn; 
And  while  the  fluid  gold  his  eye  surveys, 
The  hoary  GLACIERS  fling  their  diamond  blaze ; 
GENEVA'S  broad  lake  rushes  from  its  shores, 
ARVE  gently  murmurs  and  the  rough  RHONE  roars. 
'Mid  the  cleft  ALPS  his  cabin  peers  from  high, 
Hangs  o'er  the  clouds  and  perches  on  the  sky. 
O'er  fields  of  ice,  across  the  headlong  flood, 
From  cliff  to  cliff  he  bounds  in  fearless  mood. 
While,  far  beneath,  a  night  of  tempest  lies, 
Deep  thunder  mutters,  harmless  lightning  flies ; 
While  far  above,  from  battlements  of  snow, 
Loud  torrents  tumble  on  the  world  below ; 
On  rustic  reed  he  wakes  a  merrier  tune 
Than  the  lark  warbles  on  the  '  Ides  of  June.' 
Far  off  let  Glory's  clarion  shrilly  swell ; 
He  loves  the  music  of  \\vspipe  as  well. 
Let  shouting  millions  crown  the  hero's  head, 
And  PRIDE  her  tessellated  pavement  tread; 
More  happy  far,  this  denizen  of  air 
Enjoys  what  NATURE  condescends  to  spare ; 
His  days  are  jocund,  undisturbed  his  nights; 
His  spouse  contents  him,  and  his  mule  delights." 

A  few  years  later,  in  1815,  the  North  American  Review  was  com- 
menced. It  was  conducted  mainly  by  the  coterie  that  had  main- 
tained the  Anthology.  The  country  had  become  independent  and 
prosperous.  Public  and  private  libraries  were  doing  their  silent  but 
prodigious  work.  The  tone  of  public  sentiment  was  hopeful  and 
patriotic.  The  Review  became  a  leader  of  public  opinion,  and  pro- 
moted the  interests  of  learning  and  the  development  of  taste.  When 
we  remember  that  most  of  its  early  contributors  have  been  active 


XXvi  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

men  within  the  memory  of  the  present  generation,  and  that  one  of 
them,  Richard  H.  Dana,  Sen.,  still  survives  with  unimpaired  facul- 
ties, we  shall  be  sensible  of  the  short  space  of  time  in  which  the  bulk 
of  our  literature  has  been  created.  The  venerable  Review  also  sur- 
vives, like  an  ancient  line-of-battle  ship,  with  a  record  of  brilliant 
service,  and  not  wholly  superseded  by  the  swifter  craft  of  modern 
build. 

Let  us  not  be  misunderstood.  All  the  libraries  and  learning,  all 
the  literary  clubs  and  reviews  in  the  world  can  never  produce  a  work 
of  genius  ;  but  they  create  a  literary  atmosphere  in  which  genius  is 
nourished  ;  they  attract  authors  and  artists  to  literary  centres  ;  and 
many  minds  are  brought  through  these  influences  to  a  consciousness 
of  their  own  powers. 

As  we  have  before  mentioned,  Bryant  is  the  first  of  our  poets,  and 
Irving  of  our  prose  writers.  From  the  time  of  their  appearance  the 
enumeration  of  our  authors  becomes  more  difficult,  and  we  can  men- 
tion only  a  few  conspicuous  names.  With  all  our  disadvantages, 
and  in  spite  of  the-absence  of  an  international  copyright  law,  our  lit- 
erary fields  show  abundant  culture  and  fruit.  We  are  inclined  to 
think  that  this  is  our  Elizabethan  age,  and  that  the  names  of  our 
chief  poets  will  be  hereafter  remembered  as  the  constellation  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  Bryant,  Longfellow,  WJiittier,  Lowell, 
Holmes,  and  Emerson  are  already  classic  on  both  sides  of  the 
'Atlantic,  and  have  their  assured  place  in  history.  There  are  many 
others  who,  if  they  do  not  eventually  come  into  the  first  rank,  will 
have  affectionate  remembrance.  Among  novelists  and  romancers 
the  world  will  not  forget  Cooper,  Hawthorne,  nor  Mrs.  Stowe. 
Prescott,  Motley,  and  Parkman  are  secure  for  this  age  in  the  fields 
of  their  historic  labors.  The  classic  oratory  of  Webster,  Everett, 
Wirt,  Calhoun,  and  Sumner  will  only  perish  with  the  history  of  their 
times.  Future  generations,  we  like  to  believe,  will  turn  over  the 
pages  of  many  of  our  brilliant  essayists  with  the  delight  we  feel  in 
the  fancies  of  Lamb  and  Leigh  Hunt. 

In  literature,  as  in  life,  there  is  an  ever-moving  procession.  At  the 
most  we  can  give  only  an  instantaneous  view  of  living  writers  and  their 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XXV11 

works,  and  before  the  picture  can  be  prepared  for  exhibition  we  may 
find  the  grouping  and  perspective  all  wrong.  Immature  geniuses 
have  begun  to  dwindle,  and  some  venerable  reputations  to  grow  dim  ; 
monuments  fondly  thought  to  be  more  enduring  than  bronze  have 
begun  to  crumble  ;  the  wisdom  we  reverenced  is  growing  obsolete, 
and  the  humor  we  relished  has  gone,  like  the  expression  from  poor 
Yorick's  skull ;  while  new  men  with  strange  names  are  coming  to 
take  the  leading  places  without  the  least  consideration  for  the  elders 
whom  they  crowd  into  the  background.  Even  while  we  write,  and 
before  the  printer  has  done  his  work,  new  poems,  new  histories,  and 
new  travels  may  be  appearing,  which  will  totally  disarrange  the  best- 
considered  estimates  of  contemporary  literature.  Some  author, 
inconspicuous  hitherto,  may  blaze  with  a  new  and  unexpected  lustre. 
The  attraction  of  some  great  genius  may  draw  the  thoughts  and 
emotions  of  men  into  new  channels,  and  leave  our  present  favorites 
in  hopeless  neglect  —  until  the  turn  of  the  tide. 

The  booksellers  tell  us  that  the  lifetime  of  books  does  not  exceed 
thirty  years.  (We  do  not  refer  to  novels  and  tales,  which  the  public 
expects  fresh  daily,  like  muffins.)  It  will  be  in  vain  to  look  on  their 
shelves  to-day  for  a  volume  bearing  the  date  of  1840,  unless  it  is  one 
of  the  few  that  have  become  classic,  in  which  case  it  will  be  catalogued 
as  Vol.  —  of  the  Complete  Works  of .  If  it  were  only  the  worth- 
less books  that  are  whelmed  in  oblivion,  there  would  be  some  satisfac- 
tion in  the  sure  though  slow  vengeance  which  overtakes  dulness  and 
pretension.  But  there  are  notable  exceptions.  The  reader  of  this 
volume  will  find  on  pages  378-9  several  poems  that  are  imaginative, 
thoughtful,  and  delicately  wrought.  It  will  be  surprising,  perhaps, 
to  learn  that  he  cannot  find  a  copy  of  the  volume  from  which  they 
were  taken  in  any  bookstore  in  America.  There  are  numerous 
instances  of  the  same  kind  in  this  collection,  well  known  to  those 
who  have  made  a  study  of  the  subject,  —  instances  which  furnish 
some  justification  for  the  existence  of  Hand-books. 

With  these  reflections  in  mind  we  are  willing  to  abandon  the  task 
we  had  proposed,  of  making  a  preliminary  survey  of  contemporary 
literature.  It  will  perhaps  be  sufficient  if  we  make  some  observa- 


XXviii  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

tions  upon  the  character  and  tendencies  of  the  current  thought  and 
the  prevailing  style  of  the  time. 

It  is  obvious  that  our  literature  has  to  a  great  extent  adopted  the 
thought  and  reflected  the  changing  taste  of  the  mother  country. 
Every  English  master  has  been  acknowledged  here  as  faithfully  as 
in  London.  A  collection  of  our  articles  in  chronological  order, 
whether  in  prose  or  verse,  will  hardly  need  any  marginal  dates, 
since  the  style  will  enable  us  to  fix  the  period  to  which  it  belongs. 
Even  to  this  day  the  independence  of  this  country  has  not  been 
achieved  as  far  as  literature  is  concerned.  Admirable  works  in 
many  departments  have  been  written  here,  and  a  feeling  of  nation- 
ality is  beginning  to  penetrate  literary  classes  ;  but  we  have  not 
produced  a  half  dozen  authors  who  are  not  almost  wholly  indebted 
to  English  models.  All  the  stately,  heroic  lines  of  the  provincial 
period,  as  well  as  the  poems  for  college  anniversaries,  still  in  vogue, 
are  so  many  tributes  to  Pope.  The  Lay  Preacher,  by  Dennie,  and 
the  Letters  of  a  British  Spy,  by  Wirt,  were  only  heartfelt  acknowl- 
edgments to  the  Addisonian  essayists.  Wordsworth,  without  being 
directly  imitated  (which,  considering  his  occasional  tendency  to 
prosiness,  is  fortunate),  has  strongly  influenced  most  of  our  poets. 
New  York  gave  its  homage  to  Byron  in  Willis's  Lady  Jane,  and  in 
Halleck's  Fanny,  and  in  Marco  Bozzaris  ;  and  lately  a  new  echo  of 
his  ringing  verse  comes  from  Californian  sierras.  Were  Tennyson 
to  claim  his  own  laurels,  many  of  our  bards  would  find  their  brows  as 
bare  as  Caesar's.  But  this  is  an  ungracious  theme. 

One  thing  more  should  be  said,  however ;  and  that  is,  our  great 
indebtedness  to  English  scholarship  seems  likely  to  continue. 
While  education  is  more  generally  diffused  in  the  United  States, 
conspicuous  scholarship  is  far  more  frequent  in  England.  Literary 
labor  is  poorly  paid  in  this  country,  unless  one  is  willing  to  become 
a  buffoon,  or  has  an  alacrity  in  sinking  to  the  level  of  "  sensational " 
writing.  It  is  the  demand  for  cheap  books  that  has  made  the  profes- 
sion of  authorship  a  beggarly  one  ;  and  until  literature  as  a  profes- 
sion is  remunerative,  it  will  not  retain  the  best  minds  permanently 
in  its  service.  The  few  men  of  genius  —  half  a  dozen  in  a  genera- 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XXIX 

tion  —  will  write  because  they  must,  and  they  will  have  their  reward. 
But  the  maintenance  of  a  national  literature  requires  the  cooperation 
of  a  great  body  of  men  of  talent,  and  these  are  left  to  starve  in  this 
country  in  the  present  state  of  affairs.  As  long  as  the  results  of  an 
English  scholar's  labor  can  be  imported  and  used  without  payment, 
the  American  scholar  can  find  no  market  in  his  own  country.  Two 
thirds  of  all  our  reviewing,  condensing,  translating,  and  other  literary 
work,  are  done  for  us  in  England.  This  transfers  the  power  and 
influence  also.  We  shall  some  time  learn  that  if  we  are  ever  to  have 
a  national  literature  we  must  make  the  condition  of  a  professional 
literary  class  comfortable  and  honorable  by  providing  that  an  author's 
property  in  his  works  shall  be  acknowledged  and  guarantied  between 
the  nations. 

The  progress  of  events  has  greatly  changed  the  character  of  mod- 
ern literature.  The  great  discoveries  in  physical  science  have  not 
only  given  birth  to  an  immense  number  of  special  treatises,  but  have 
affected  our  thinking,  supplied  us  with  new  words  for  the  new  ideas, 
and  furnished  illustrations  for  philosophers  and  poets.  Our  essay- 
ists, preachers,  and  lecturers  have  resources  at  hand  which  the 
fathers  of  our  literature  had  never  dreamed  of.  And  while  investi- 
gation has  been  silently  pointing  out  the  errors  of  the  past,  and 
building  our  knowledge  on  sure  foundations,  the  experiments  of  nat- 
ural philosophers,  —  as  in  spectrum-analysis,  for  instance,  —  and  the 
observations  of  astronomers,  have  been  de-magnetizing  our  common 
figures  of  speech  (once  suited  to  the  world's  childhood)  and  raising  our 
conceptions  of  the  grandeur  of  the  universe.  The  mind  deals  with 
vaster  measures  of  space  and  time,  and  man  has  thereby  grown  in 
intellectual  and  moral  stature.  And  as  thought  has  expanded,  so 
language,  the  instrument  of  thought,  or  rather  its  body,  has  had  a 
corresponding  development.  Whoever  shall  write  a  great  poem 
hereafter  will  have  at  his  hand  virtually  a  new  and  living  vocabulary. 
The  reenforced  and  perfected  language,  like  an  armory  of  burnished 
weapons,  old  and  new,  waits  for  the  master,  who  can  display  its 
accumulated  stores. 

Another  influence,  which  is  slowly  but  powerfully  affecting  our 


XXX  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

literature,  is  the  doctrine  of  equality  in  political  affairs  and  economic 
relations.  The  point  of  separation  between  us  and  the  English  peo- 
ple is  where  democracy  and  Christianity  meet  in  asserting  the  rights 
of  man  as  man  against  prescription  and  the  accidents  of  birth.  As 
long  as  we  are  loyal  to  the  ideas  on  which  our  government  rests, 
the  ideas  which  alone  give  us  an  individuality  among  nations,  which 
have  cast  out  slavery  and  left  the  republic  firm,  and  which  are  to 
overthrow  all  other  intrenched  privileges  of  special  classes,  we  can 
look  forward  hopefully  to  the  development  of  a  national  character, 
and  of  a  national  literature  in  harmony  with  it.  . 

A  change  in  the  observer's  point  of  view  is  a  very  important  fact. 
And  it  is  clear  that  if  the  experiment  of  free  government  is  to  be 
permanently  successful,  much  of  the  history  as  well  as  the  political 
and  moral  philosophy  of  the  world  must  be  re-written  for  us.  It  is 
one  thing  that  the  issue  of  a  battle  shall  bring  a  nation  of  peasants, 
united  and  content,  to  the  foot  of  one  man  exalted  on  a  throne,  and 
quite  another  that  the  same  people  shall  gain  by  their  own  swords 
the  right  to  be  greatly  free,  to  be  educated  for  their  responsibilities, 
and  .to  enter  upon  the  illimitable  career  of  progress.  The  beliefs  of 
the  historian  and  the  faith  of  the  bard  will  color,  if  not  wholly  con- 
trol, their  accounts  of  such  a  struggle  and  their  celebration  of  the 
victory.  We  have  therefore  a  right  to  expect  from  our 'authors  that 
they  shall  be  animated  by  a  spirit  in  harmony  with  our  national 
ideas,  and  by  a  faith  in  the  future  of  our  institutions.  Without  this, 
there  is  not  even  a  beginning  for  a  national  literature.  Kings  and 
courts  may  interest  us  like  mediaeval  castles,  but  the  philosophical 
American  will  think  more  of  his  forty  million  fellow  sovereigns,  and 
of  the  influences  which  are  to  make  them  fit  rulers  over  themselves. 
In  this  view  the  ideal  historian  is  not  only  an  impartial  observer,  but 
a  believer  in  humanity,  and  in  the  perfectibility  of  institutions  for 
humanity's  sake.  History  will  be  the  record  of  the  progress  of 
ideas,  of  the  gradual  elimination  of  error  and  wrong,  and  so  a  proph- 
ecy of  ultimate  justice  and  tranquillity. 

In  looking  over  the  body  of  modern  literature  we  notice  the 
absence  of  dramatic  works.  A  little  over  two  hundred  years  ago  the 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XXXI 

noblest  poetry,  the  profoundest  views  of  life,  the  wisest  maxims  of 
statesmanship,  as  well  as  ihe  most  masterly  studies  of  character, 
were  to  be  found  in  plays.  The  theatre  degenerated  as  education  be- 
came more  general,  and  poetry  was  gradually  superseded  by  prose  in 
dramatic  literature.  The  last  classical  plays  were  Talfourd's,  unless 
we  except  Lord  Lytton's  Richelieu ;  and  The  Lady  of  Lyons  was  about 
the  last  of  the  sentimental  class.  Plays  are  still  written  by  scholars  ; 
the  plays  of  Epes  Sargent,  George  H.  Boker,  and  of  George  H.  Cal- 
vert,  in  this  country,  are  admirable  compositions.  But  acting  dramas 
are  no  longer  a  part  of  literature.  A  new  Shakespeare  could  not  get  a 
play  represented  on  the  modern  stage  unless  it  were  a  melodrama  or 
a  burlesque.  Even  then,  the  manager  at  the  first  rehearsal  would 
cut  out  every  speech  on  which  the  dramatist  prided  himself,  every 
gem  of  sentiment  and  epigrammatic  turn,  every  flower  of  song.  "  To 
be  or  not  to  be,"  "  What  a  piece  of  work  is  man  !  "  "  Hark  !  the  lark 
at  heaven's  gate  sings,"  "  All  the  world's  a  stage,"  would  be  found 
as  so  many  scraps  of  paper  in  the  waste-basket.  A  play,  being  no 
longer  a  literary  work,  is  "  reduced,"  as  in  fractions,  "  to  its  lowest 
terms."  Action  is  the  thing  ;  and  as  a  ship  of  war  that  had  before 
moved  on  in  beauty,  a  stately  pile  of  canvas  towers,  now,  when  the 
snemy  nears,  takes  in  her  light  sails,  sends  down  her  slender  spars, 
and  strips  to  fighting  trim,  so  the  serious  play,  to  suit  the  impatient 
temper  of  audiences,  is  shorn  of  its  graces  and  its  fine  sentiments, 
and  is  made  a  mere  exhibition  of  the  conflict  of  human  passions  in 
their  most  tumultuous  form.  The  most  inveterate  of  play-goers  may 
be  safely  challenged  to  repeat  a  single  line  from  any  modern  work 
that  has  delighted  him.  He  may  recall  an  attitude  or  a  tableau,  but 
not  a  sentence  worth  remembering. 
Once,  for  the  pensive  Milton, — 

"gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptred  pall  came  sweeping  by  ; " 

now,  it  is  an  infuriated  being  with  skirts  and  sleeves  tucked  up,  rush- 
ing across  the  stage  and  brandishing  a  butcher's  knife. 

The  novel  has  gained  in  character  and  influence  as  much  as  the 
drama  has  lost.     The  demand  for  entertainment  seems  rather  to 


XXX11  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

have  grown  with  the  world's  growth,  until  now  it  is  certain  that  the 
genius  of  our  century  has  found  its  highest  expression  in  prose  fic- 
tion. The  novel,  as  well  as  literature  in  general,  has  shared  in  the 
increased  refinement  of  manners  and  elevation  of  moral  tone.  It  is 
no  longer  true  that  the  better  class  of  novels  minister  to  impure 
tastes,  or  are  calculated  to  give  false  views  of  life.  Public  sentiment 
will  not  tolerate  any  work  that  is  not  free  from  immoral  tendencies  ; 
and  although  multitudes  of  weak  and  frivolous  novels,  and  a  great 
many  of  questionable  tendencies,  still  find  readers,  yet  the  current  is 
daily  stronger  in  favor  of  those  works  in  which  purity  of  character 
and  noble  aims  in  life  are  inculcated. 

Rightly  viewed,  the  ideal  novel  is  a  creation  of  a  high  order.  The 
opportunity  it  offers  to  a  man  of  genius  is  practically  without  limit. 
So  long  as  the  author  can  hold  his  readers  by  their  interest  in  the 
unfolding  of  his  story,  he  can  give  time  to  studies  of  character,  to 
lively  sketches  of  manners,  to  historical  scenes,  or  to  discussions 
upon  letters,  philosophy,  or  art.  Some  of  the  most  brilliant  and 
suggestive  writing  of  our  times,  worthy  of  the  first  essayists  and 
thinkers,  may  be  found  interspersed  in  the  pages  of  modern  novels.* 
The  authors  of  these  works  naturally  represent  all  shades  of  opin- 
ions ;  the  various  religious  sects  as  well  as  the  schools  of  philosophy 
and  politics  have  all  pressed  fiction  into  their  service.  But  we  can 
learn  the  character  and  doctrinal  drift  of  such  works  through  the 
newspapers  and  reviews,  and  can  then  make  choice  of  such  fiction 
for  our  entertainment  as  will  be  in  harmony  with  our  settled  convic- 
tions, and  can  advise  the  young  and  inexperienced  to  avoid  those 
which  are  calculated  to  disseminate  false  principles  or  low  views  of 
duty.  It  is  true  in  this  department  of  literature  as  in  the  arena  of 
philosophic  controversy,  that  error  can  be  safely  tolerated  as  long  as 
truth  is  left  free  to  combat  it. 

The  judicious  public  will  not  understand  us  as  approving  the  indis- 
criminate and  continual  reading  of  novels  to  which  so  many  young 
people  are  addicted.  Used  at  proper  intervals,  and  only  for  relaxa- 

*  The  reader  is  referred  to  the  admirable  work  on  Books  and  Reading,  by  President 
Noah  Porter,  of  Yale  College. 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XXX111 

tion  and  amusement,  a  well-written  and  high-toned  novel,  especially 
of  the  historical  kind,  has  a  most  favorable  influence  upon  the  facul- 
ties —  restoring  elasticity  and  freshness  after  study,  filling  the  mind 
with  noble  images,  tending  to  the  improvement  of  the  taste,  and  aid- 
ing in  the  acquirement  of  a  fluent  and  effective  style,  both  in  writing 
and  speaking. 

It  is  too  soon  yet  to  characterize  the  style  and  to  apprehend  clearly 
the  tendencies  of  our  time.  We  can  say  in  general  that  what  is 
truly  excellent,  and  is  likely  to  endure,  is  so  from  its  basis  of  thought 
and  from  its  accord  with  the  immutable  laws  of  nature  and  of  man. 
If  we  are  sure  of  anything,  it  is  that  the  popularity  which  is  estab- 
lis.hed  upon  a  trick  of  expression,  or  an  insincerity  of  any  kind,  is 
short  lived.  The  world  has  done  with  imaginary  woes,  and  with 
fictitious  sentiment  of  all  hues,  from  blue  to  rosy.  That  life  is  real 
and  earnest  is  as  true  in  the  domain  of  imagination  as  in  the  world 
of  fact.  Among  our  younger  writers,  and  in  certain  periodicals,  the 
prevailing  tendencies  are  not  altogether  healthy.  There  is  still  an 
impression  among  many  readers  that  sentences  made  up  of  hints 
and  suggestions  ;  sentences  stuck  over  with  pet  epithets,  until  they 
have  an  enamelled  look  ;  sentences  that  are  constructed  with  a  view 
to  make  the  thought  stammer  and  hesitate,  —  are  models  of  good 
taste.  It  is  especially  true  in  Boston,  and  perhaps  in  other  cities, 
that  there  is  a  tendency,  common  to  literary,  pictorial,  and  musical 
art,  as  well  as  in  the  manners  and  speech  of  "  society,"  which  con- 
trols the  taste  and  shapes  the  productions  of  the  time.  This  is  the 
influence  which  makes  a  goose  waddling  under  a  scraggy  willow  (by 
a  French  brook)  a  better  subject  for  a  landscape  painter  than  the 
Domes  of  the  Yo  Semite.  This  is  the  spirit  which  pronounces  any 
direct  and  manly  utterance  vulgar,  and  prefers  the  etching  in  of  a 
thought  by  some  soft-voiced  stammerer.  The  writer  of  this  school 
is  praised  for  his  "  delicate  "  traits  of  style,  even  though  there  may 
be  scarcely  a  ripple  of  mirth,  and  never  a  gleam  of  wit  on  the 
placid  stream  of  his  prose. 

This  is  the  spirit  which  has   made   the   art   criticism   of  many 
of   the  newspapers   contemptible ;    which   induces   young  authors 
c 


XXXIV  HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

to  strive  for  conceits,  prettinesses,  and  affectations,  and  to  con- 
sider a  sentence  beautiful  only  when,  as  Turner  said  of  Guide's 
Mater  Dolorosa,  it  is  "polished  to  inanity."  This  is  the  spirit 
which  in  music  prefers  the  nice  form  of  expression  to  the  thought 
itself;  which  sets  the  technical  proficiency  of  the  player  and  singer 
above  the  God-given  feeling  by  virtue  of  which  they  are  artists 
at  all. 

Traits  of  this  kind  are  among  the  surest  signs  of  intellectual 
decay.  The  student  of  English  literature  ought  to  be  warned  that 
not  all  the  authors  in  a  Hand-book  are  models  for  imitation  ;  that 
extraneous  characteristics  of  style  are  peculiar  to  each  author,  and 
cannot  be  put  on  by  another  like  a  second-hand  garment ;  that 
solid  thought  and  unaffected  feeling  are  the  things  chiefly  val- 
uable in  any  literary  composition,  and  that  graces  of  manner,  like 
those  of  the  person,  are  most  winning  when  unconsciously  worn. 


LIST   OF  WRITERS 

IN  VARIOUS  DEPARTMENTS  OF  LITERATURE,   NOT    INCLUDED    IN 
THIS  COLLECTION. 


ABBOTT,  JACOB Author  of  Juvenile  Miscel.  Works.     .  .  1803- 

ABBOTT,  JOHN  S.  C Historian 1805- 

ADAMS,  CHARLES  FRANCIS Statesman  and  Diplomatist 1807- 

ADAMS,  CHARLES  FRANCIS,  JR.  .  .  .  Political  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .  . 

ADAMS,  HANNAH Historian  of  the  Jews 1755-1831 

ADAMS,  JOHN Poet 1704-1740 

ADAMS,  NEHEMIAH Theologian 1806- 

ADAMS,  SAMUEL Political  Writer 1722-1803 

ADAMS,  WM.  T.    (Oliver  Optic).      .   .  Tales  and  Travels 1822- 

AGASSIZ,  Louis Geologist  and  Naturalist 1807- 

AINSLEE,  HEW Poet 1792- 

ALCOTT.  AMOS  BRONSON Philosopher .  .  1799- 

ALCOTT,  LOUISA  M Author  of  Tales  and  Sketches 

ALCOTT,  WILLIAM  A Writer  upon  Hygiene 1798-1859 

ALDRICH,  JAMES Poet 1810-1856 

ALEXANDER,  ARCHIBALD Theologian 1772-1851 

ALEXANDER,  JAMES  WADDELL.  .  .  .  Theologian 1804-1859 

ALEXANDER,  JOSEPH  A Theologian. 1809-1860 

ALEXANDER,  STEPHEN Astronomer 1806- 

ALGER,  WILLIAM  R Theologian 1822- 

ALLEN,  JOSEPH  H Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer% .  1812- 

ALLEN,  WILLIAM Author  of  Biographical  Dictionary.    .  .  1784-1868 

ALLIBONE,  S.  AUSTIN Bibliographer 1816- 

ALSOP,  RICHARD Poet 1761-1815 

AMORY,  THOMAS  C Biographer  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  . 

ANGELL,  GEORGE  T.   .  . Jurist 

ANTHON,  CHARLES Editor  of  Classics. 1797-1867 

ANTHON.  JOHN Jurist 1784-1863 

ARMSTRONG,  JOHN Historian  and  Biographer 1758-1843 

ARNOLD,  GEORGE Poet -1865 

ARTHUR,  TIMOTHYS Author  of  Tales,  &c 1809- 

AUSTIN,  WILLIAM Essayist  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .   .  1778-1841 

BACHE.  ALEXANDER  DALLAS.     .  .  .   Physicist 1806-1867 

BACHE,  FRANKLIN Medical  and  Scientific  Writer 1792-1864 

BAIRD,  ROBERT Theologian 1798-1863 

BAKER,  GEORGE  M. Dramatist 1832- 

BALDWIN,  JOHN  D Historical  Writer 1810- 

BALLOU,  HOSEA Theologian 1771-1852 

XXXV 


XXXVI  LIST    OF    WRITERS. 

BALLOU,  MATURIN  M Miscellaneous  Writer. 1822- 

BANCROFT,  AARON Theologian  and  Annalist 1755-1839 

BARBER,  JOHN  W Historian 1798- 

BARNARD,  HENRY Writer  on  Education 1811- 

BARNARD,  JONATHAN  G Writer  on  Military  Science 1815- 

BARNES,  ALBERT Theologian 1798-1870 

BARTLETT,  JOHN  RUSSELL. Philologist 1805- 

BARTLETT,  JOSEPH Poet  and  Satirist 1762-1827 

BARTOL,  CYRUS  A Theologian 1813- 

BARRY,  JOHN  S Historian  of  Massachusetts 1802-1870 

BARTRAM,  WILLIAM Traveller 1739-1823 

BEDELL,  GEORGE  T Theologian 1793-1834 

BEECHER,  CATHERINE  E Miscellaneous  Writer 1800- 

BEECHER,  CHARLES Theologian 1810- 

BEECHER,  EDWARD Theologian. 1804- 

BEECHER,  LYMAN Theologian 1775-1863 

BELKNAP,  JEREMY Theologian,  and  Hist,  of  New  Hamp.    .  1744-1798 

BELLAMY,  JOSEPH Theologian 1719-1790 

BENJAMIN.  PARK Journalist  and  Poet 1309-1864 

BENTON,  THOMAS  H Annalist  and  Political  Writer 1782-1853 

BETHUNE,  GEORGE  W Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .  1805- 

BIGELOW,  JACOB Medical  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     .   .  1787- 

BIGELOW,  JOHN Journalist 1817- 

BIGLOW,  WILLIAM Poet  and  Journalist 1773-1844 

BLAIR,  JAMES. Theologian 1660-1743 

BLEECKER,  ANN  ELIZA- Poet 1752-1783 

BONAPARTE,  CHARLES  LUCIEN.  .  .  .   Ornithologist 1803-1857 

BOOTH,  MARY  L Translator.      ,  1831- 

BOTTA,  ANNE  C.  (LYNCH) Poet 

BOWDITCH,  NATHANIEL. Mathematician 1773-1838 

BOWEN,  FRANCIS Metaphysical  and  Historical  Writer.  .   .  1811- 

BOWLES,  SAMUEL Journalist 1826- 

BRACE,  CHARLES  L Philanthropist. 1826- 

BRACKENRIDGE,  HENRY  M Political  Writer. 1786-1871 

BRACKEN-RIDGE,  HUGH  HENRY.  .  .   .   Poet  and  Satirist 1748-1816 

BRADFORD,  ALDEN Historian  and  Biographer. 1765-1843 

BRADFORD,  WILLIAM Annalist 1538-1657 

BRADSTREET,  ANNE Poet .   .  1612-1672 

BRAINERD,  JOHN  G.  C Poet 1796-1828 

BRECKINRIDGE,  ROBERT  J Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .  iSoo- 

BRIGGS,  CHARLES  F Novelist  and  Miscellaneous  Writer,  about  1812- 

BRISTED,  CHARLES  ASTOR Miscellaneous  Writer 1820- 

BROOKS,  CHARLES  T Poet 1813- 

BROOKS,  JAMES  G Journalist 1801-1841 

BROOKS,  MARIA  (GOWEN) Poet 1795-1845 

BROWN,  CHARLES  BROCKDEN Novelist 1771-1810 

BROWNE,  CHAS.  F.  (Artemus  Ward).  .   Humorist 1834-1867 

BROWNE,  JOHN  Ross Traveller  and  Humorist 1817- 

BROWNELL,  H.  H Poet 

BUCKINGHAM,  JOSEPH  T Journalist 1770-1861 

BUCKMINSTER,  JOSEPH  S Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .  1784-1812 

BULFINCH,  STEPHEN  G Poet  and  Theologian 1809-1870 

BULFINCH,  THOMAS Miscellaneous 1796-1867 

BURLEIGH,  WILLIAM  H Poet. ..,,..  1812-1871 


LIST    OF    WRITERS.  XXXV11 

BURRITT,  ELIHU Advocate  of  Peace,  &c. 1811- 

BUSH,  GEORGE. Theologian 1796-1859 

BUTLER,  WILLIAM  ALLEN Poet  and  Satirist 1825- 

BYLES,  MATHER. Poet  and  Theologian 1706-1788 

BYRD,  WILLIAM Narrator  of  Expedition  in  Virginia.    .   .    1674-1744 

CABOT,  J.  ELIOT Writer  on  Art 

CALDWELL,  CHARLES Medical  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .   .   1772-1853 

CALLEXDER,  JOHN Annalist 1707-1748 

CALVERT,  GEORGE  H Post,  Dramatist,  and  Essayist     ....    1803- 

CAMPUELL,  JACOB Poet 1760-1788 

CANFIELD,  FRANCESCA  A Poet 1803-1823 

CAREY,  HENRY  C Writer  on  Political  Economy 1793- 

CAREY,  MATTHEW. Political  Writer 1760-1839 

CARTER,  ROBERT Journalist 

CARY,  PHCEBE. Poet 1825-1871 

CASS,  LEWIS Political  Writer 1782-1862 

CHADBOURN,  PAUL  A. Philosophical  and  Miscellaneous  Writer. 

CHANNING,  WILLIAM  H Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .    1810- 

CHAPIX,  EDWI.V  H Theologian,  &c. 1814- 

CHASE,  PHILANDER. Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .   1775-1852 

CHEEVER,  GEORGE  B .«  Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.      1807- 

CHESEBRO,  CAROLINE.    • Author  of  Tales,  &c. 

CHILD,  FRANCIS  J Miscellaneous  Writer 

CHOULES,  JOHN  O Miscellaneous  Writer 1801-1856 

CLAP,  THOMAS Pres,  Yale  Col.,  Matlu  and  Writ  on  Eth.  1703-1767 

CLARK,  WILLIS  G Ed.tor  and  Poet 1810-1841 

CLARKE,  JAMES  FREEMAN Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .    iSio- 

CLARKE,  MCDONALD Poet 1798-1842 

CLIFTON,  WILLIAM Poet 1772-1799 

CLINTON,  DE  WITT Statesman  and  Political  Writer.   ....   1769-1828 

COLDEN,  CADWALADER Annalist  and  Natural  Philosopher.  .   .   .    1688-1776 

COLLYER,  ROBERT Theologian 1823- 

COLMAN,  BENJAMIN Theologian  and  Poet 1073-i747 

COLMAN,  HENRY Agricultural  Writer. 1785-1849 

COLTON,  CALVIN Biographical  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     1789-1859 

COLTON,  WALTER Miscellaneous  Writer. 1797-1851 

COOKE,  JOHN  ESTEN Novelist  and  Biographer. 1830- 

COOKE,  PHILIP  P Post 1816-1850 

COOPER,  SUSAN  FENIMORE Miscellaneous  Writer. 1815- 

COOPSR,  THOMAS. Natural  Philosopher  and  Jurist  ....    1759-1839 

CONRAD,  ROBERT  T Dramatist 1810-1858 

CONWAY,  MONCURS  D Miscellaneous  Writer. 

COTTON,  JOHN Theologian 1585-1652 

COXE,  ARTHUR  CLEVELAND Poet 1818- 

COXE,  TENCH Political  Economist 1755-1824 

COZZEN.S  FREDERICK  S Author  of  Humorous  Sketches.   ....    1818-1869 

CRANCH,  WILLIAM Jurist.      1769-1555 

CREVECCEUR,  HECTOR  ST.  JOHN.    .   .  Author  of  Letters  of  an  Am.  Farmer.     .   1731-1813 

CROSWELL,  WILLIAM Poet 1804-1851 

CUMMINS,  MARIA  S Novelist 1827- 

CURTIS,  GEORGE  T Jurist  and  Biographer 1812- 

QSHING,  CALEB Jurist  and  Diplomatist 1800- 

CUTTER,  GEORGE  W Poet -1865 


XXXviii  LIST   OF   WRITERS. 

DANA,  CHARLES  A Journalist 1819- 

DANA,  JAMES  D Physicist 1813- 

DANB,  NATHAN Jurist 1752-1835 

DARLINGTON,  WILLIAM Botanist 1782-1863 

DAVIDSON,  LUCRETIA  M Poet 1808- 

DAVIDSON,  MARGARET  M Poet 1823-1837 

DAVIES,  CHARLES, Mathematician 1798- 

DAVIES,  SAMUEL. Theologian 1723-1761 

DAVIS,  MATTHEW  L Political  Writer 1766-1850 

DAVVES,  RUFUS Post 1803-1859 

DAY,  JEREMIAH Mathematician  and  Metaphysician.     .   .  1773-1867 

DEANE,  CHARLES Antiquarian 1813- 

DEARBORN,  HENRY  A.  S Historical  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     .  1783-1851 

DE  Bow,  JAMES  D.  B Journalist,  &c 1820  1867 

DE  MILLE,  JAMES Novelist 

DENNIE,  JOSEPH Essayist i768-i8v2 

DERBY,  GEORGE  H Humorist 1824-1861 

DE  VERE,  MAXIMILIAN  SCHELE.     .   .   Miscellaneous  Writer 1820- 

DEXTER,  HENRY  M. Theologian 1821- 

DICKINSON,  ANNA  E Reformer. 1842- 

DICKINSON,  JOHN Poliiical  Writer 1732-1802 

DILLON,  JOHN  B Historian,  t ,  1807- 

Dix,  JOHN  A Orator  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .   .   .  1798- 

DOWLING,  JOHN Theologian 1807- 

DOWNING,  ANDREW  J Landscape  Gardener 1815-1852 

DRAKE,  DANIEL Medical  and  Historical  Writer.    ....  1785-1852 

DRAKE,  SAMUEL  G Antiquarian 1798- 

DRAPER,  LYMAN  C Annalist 1815- 

DRAYTON,  WILLIAM  H Political  Writer 1742-1779 

DRINKER,  ANNA  (Edith  May).      .   .   .   Poet. 

DUFFIELD,  GEORGE Theologian 1794-1868 

DUGANNE,  AUGUSTINE  J.  H Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer 1823- 

DUNGLISON,  ROBLEY Medical  Writer. ^  .   .  .  .  1798-1869 

DUNLAP,  WILLIAM Poet  and  Dramatist 1766-1839 

DUPUY,  ELIZA  A Tales,  &c 

DURIVAGE,  FRANCIS  A Miscellaneous  Writer. 1814- 

DUYCKINCK,  EVERT  A Ed.  Cycl.  Am.  Lit 1816- 

DUYCKINCK,  GEORGE  L Ed.  Cycl.  Am.  Lit 

DWIGHT,  SERENO  E Theologian 1786-1850 

DWIGHT,  THEODORE Miscellaneous  Writer. 1796-1866 

EDWARDS,  BELA  B Theologian 1802-1852 

EDWARDS,  JONATHAN Theologian  and  Metaphysician 1703-1758 

EDWARDS,  TRYON Theologian 1809- 

EGGLESTON,  EDWARD Novelist 

ELDER,  WILLIAM Journalist  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     .  1809- 

ELIOT,  JOHN Translator  of  the  Indian  Bible 1603-1690 

ELIOT,  SAMUEL Historian,  &c 1821- 

ELLET,  ELIZABETH  F Novelist,  &c 1818- 

ELLIOTT,  CHARLES Theologian 2792-1869 

ELLIOTT,  CHARLES  W Historical  Writer 1817- 

ELLIOTT,  STEPHEN Botanist  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .   .  1771-1830 

ELLIOTT,  WILLIAM  (of  S.  C.) Miscellaneous  Writer 1788-1863 

ELLIS,  GEORGE  E Theological  and  Historical  Writer.     .  .  1814- 


LIST    OF    WRITERS.  XXXIX 

EMBURY,  EMMA  C Miscellaneous  Writer. 1806-1863 

ENGLAND,  JOHN Theologian 1786-1842 

ENGLISH,  THOMAS  DUNN Miscellaneous  Writer. 1819- 

EVANS,  AUGUSTA  J Novelist 1836- 

EVERETT,  DAVID Journalist,  &c 1770-1813 

EWBANK,  THOMAS Writer  on  Mechanics 1792-1870 

F  AIRFIELD,  SUMNER  L Poet 1803-1844 

FAY,  THEODORE  S Novelist,  &c.     . 1807- 

FESSENDEN,  THOMAS  G Poet  and  Satirist 1771-1837 

FIELD,  HENRY  M Miscellaneous  Writer 1822- 

FINNEY,  CHARLES  G Theologian 1792- 

FLAGG,  EDMUND Novelist 1815- 

FLAGG,  WILSON Writer  on  Natural  History 

FLANDERS,  HENRY Jurist . 

FLINT,  AUSTIN Medical  Writer. 1824- 

FLINT,  CHARLES  L Agricultural  Writer •  1824- 

FLINT,  TIMOTHY Historian,  Novelist,  and  Misc.  Writer.  .  1780-1840 

FOLGER,  PETER Poet 1617-1690 

FOLLEN,  CHARLES Theologian,  &c 1796-1840 

FOLLEN,  ELIZA  LEE Miscellaneous  Writer 1787-1860 

FOSTER,  S.TEPHEN  C Song  Writer.      1826-1864 

FOWLER,  ORSON  S Phrenologist 1809- 

FRANCIS,  JOHN  W Medical  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     .   .  1789-1861 

FRISBIE,  LEVI Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer 1783-1822 

FROTHINGHAM,  NATHANIEL  L.  .   .   .   Poet  and  Theologian 1793-1870 

FROTHINGHAM,  RICHARD,  JR.      .   .   .   Historian 1812- 

FRY,  WILLIAM  H Musical  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     .   .  1815-1864 

FULLER,  RICHARD Theologian 1804- 

FURNESS,  WILLIAM  H Theologian 1802- 

GALLAGHER,  WILLIAM  D Poet 1808- 

GALLATIN,  ALBERT Statesman  and  Political  Writer 1761-1849 

GANNETT,  EZRA  S Theologian ;   .   .  1801-1871 

GARRISON,  WILLIAM  L Reformer 1804- 

GAYARRE,  CHARLES  E.  A Historian 1805- 

GILES,  HENRY .Essayist  and  Critic 1809- 

GILMAK,  CAROLINE Poet J794~ 

GILMAN,  SAMUEL Miscellaneous  Writer. 1791-1858 

GLOVER,  CAROLINE  GILMAN Poet 1823- 

GODPREY,  THOMAS Poet  and  Dramatist 1736-1763 

GODKIN,  EDWARD  L Journalist 1831- 

GOODRICH,  CHAUNCEY  A Theologian  and  Lexicographer 1790-1860 

GOODRICH,  FRANK  B Miscellaneous  Writer 1826- 

GOODRICH,  SAMUEL  G.  (Peter  Parley).  Juvenile  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .   .  1793-1860 

GOOKIN,  DANIEL Historian  of  the  Indians.    ..*.»...  1612-1687 

GOULD,  AUGUSTUS  A Naturalist 1805-1866 

GOULD,  HANNAH  F Poet 1789- 

GRAY,  ASA Botanist.     ...» 1810- 

GRAYDON,  ALEXANDER Memoirs. 1752-1818 

GREELEY,  HORACE Journalist 1811- 

GREEN,  JACOB. Physicist « 1790-1841 

GREEN,  JOSEPH Comic  Poet 1706-1780 

GREENE,  CHARLES  GORDON.     .  .  »  .  Journalist • 1804- 


Xl  LIST   OF    WRITERS. 

GREENE,  WILLIAM  B Writer  on  Finance  and  Metaphysics.     . 

GREENLEAF,  SIMON Jurist 1783-1853 

GREENWOOD,  FRANCIS  W.  P Theologian 1 797-1843 

GRIGSBY,  HUGH  BLAIR Political  Writer 1806- 

GRISWOLD,  RUFUS  W Editor  of  American  Literature 1815-1857 

GROSS,  SAMUEL  D Medical  Writer 1805- 

GUILD,  CURTIS Travels 

GUROWSKI,  ADAM  DE Political  Writer 1805-1866 

HACKETT,  HORATIO  B Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .   1808- 

HALE,  NATHAN Journalist 1784-1863 

HALE,  SARAH  J.  (BUELL) Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer 1790- 

HALL,  JAMES Author  of  Western  Sketches,  &c.    .   .   .    1793-1868 

HALL,  LOUISA  J Poet 1802- 

HALLECK,  HENRY  W Writer  on  Military  topics 1814-1872 

HALPINE,  CHARLES  G Poet  and  Humorist 1829-1868 

HARBAUGH,  HENRY Theologian 1817-1867 

HARE,  ROBERT Chemist 1781-1858 

HARPER,  ROBERT  G Political  Writer 1765-1825 

HARRIS,  THADDEUS  M Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .   1768-1842 

HARRIS,  THADDEUS  WILLIAM.    .   .   .   Entomologist 1795-1856 

HAVEN,  ALICE  B Novelist 1828-1863 

HAVEN,  GILBERT Theologian 

HAWES,  JOEL Theologian 1789-1867 

HAWKS,  FRANCIS  L Theologian,  Jurist,  and  Miscel.  Writer.     1798-1866 

HAY,  JOHN Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer 1839- 

HAYES,  ISAAC  I Arctic  Explorer 1832- 

HAYNE,  PAUL  H Poet 1831- 

HENRY,  JOSEPH Physicist 1797- 

HENRY,  PATRICK Orator 1736-1799 

HENTZ,  CAROLINE  LEE. Novelist  and  Dramatist 1800-1856 

HERBERT,  HENRY  WILLIAM Miscellaneous  Writer. 1807-1858 

HEYWOOD,  J.  H Theologian  and  Poet 

HICKOK,  LAURENS  P Theologian  and  Metaphysician.    .'  .   .   .   1798- 

HILL,  THOMAS Theologian  and  Naturalist 1818- 

HILLHOUSE,  JAMES  A Poet 1789-1841 

HILLIARD,  FRANCIS Jurist 1808- 

HIRST,  HENRY  B Poet 1813- 

HITCHCOCK,  EDWARD Geologist  and  Theologian 1793-1864 

HOBART,  JOHN  HENRY Theologian 1775-1830 

HOFFMAN,  DAVID Jurist  and  Essayist 1784-1854 

HOLMES,  ABIEL Theologian  and  Historian 1763-1837 

HONEYWCOD,  ST.  JOHN Poet 1763-1798 

HOOKER,  THOMAS Theologian 1586-1647 

HOOKER,  HERMAN Theologian 1806-1865 

HOOPER,  LUCY.     .    .' Poet 1816-1841 

HOPKINS,  JOHN  HENRY Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .   1792- 

HOPKINS,  LEMUEL. Poet 1750-1801 

HOPKINS,  SAMUEL Author  of  a  System  of  Divinity 1721-1803 

HOPKINSON,  FRANCIS Poet  and  Humorist 1738-1791 

HOPKINSON,  JOSEPH Jurist  and  Poet 1770-1842 

HOSACK,  DAVID Medical  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     .   .    1769-1835 

HOSMER,  WILLIAM  H.  C Poet 1814- 

HOYT,  RALPH Poet 1810- 


LIST    OF    WRITERS.  xli 

HUBBARD,  WILLIAM Historian 1628-1704 

HUDSON,  HENRY  N Editor  of  Shakespeare 1814- 

HUMPHREYS,  DAVID Poet  and  Biographer 1752-1818 

HUNT,  FREEMAN. Writer  upon  Finance 1804-1856 

HUNTINGTON,  FREDERIC  D Theologian 1819- 

HUNTINGTON,  JEDEDIAH  V Poet  and  Novelist 1815-1862 

HURLBUT,  WILLIAM  HENRY,   ....    Miscellaneous  Writer 1827- 

HUTCHINSON,  THOMAS Historian 1711-1780 

INGERSOLL,  CHARLES  J Historian  and  Political  Writer 1782-1862 

INGERSOLL,  JOSEPH  R Political  Writer 1786-1868 

INGRAHAM,  JOSEPH  H Romance  Writer,  &c 1809-1866 

JACKSON,  JAMES Medical  Writer 1777-1867 

JAMES,  HENRY Theologian  and  Metaphysician 1811- 

JAY,  JOHN Jurist  and  Political  Writer 1745-1829 

JAY,  WILLIAM Jurist  and  Political  Writer 1789-1858 

JARVES,  JAMES  JACKSON Writer  on  Art 1818- 

JARVIS,  SAMUEL  F Theologian 1786-1851 

JETER,  JEREMIAH  13 Theologian 1802- 

JONES,  GEORGE Miscellaneous  Writer 1800-1870 

JONES,  JAMES  A Miscellaneous  Writer 1790-1853 

JONES,  JOHN  B Author  of  Tales  and  Sketches 1810- 

JONES,  WILLIAM  A Essayist 1817- 

JUDSON,  EMILY  (CHUBBUCK) Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.      .  .   .  1817-1854 

JUNKIN,  GEORGE Theologian 1790-1868 

KANE,  ELISHA  K Arctic  Explorer. 1820-1857 

KELLOGG,  ELIJAH .   Author  of  Tales,  &c 

KENRICK,  FRANCIS  P Theologian 1797-1863 

KENT,  JAMES Jurist 1763-1847 

KETTELL,  SAMUEL Miscellaneous  Writer 1800-1855 

KIMBALL,  RICHARD  B Novelist 1816- 

KINGSLEY,  JAMES  L Miscellaneous  Writer. 1778-1852 

KINNEY,  ELIZABETH  C Poet 

KINNEY,  JULIA  H.  (SCOTT) Poet 1809-1842 

KIRK,  EDWARD  N Theologian 1802- 

KIRK,  JOHN  FOSTER Historian 1820- 

KIRKLAND,  CAROLINE  M Miscellaneous  Writer 1801-1864 

KNAPP,  FRANCIS Poet 1.672- 

KNAPP,  SAMUEL  L Miscellaneous  Writer 1783-1838 

KNEELAND,  SAMUEL Naturalist 1821- 

KNIGHT,  HENRY  C Poet 1788-1835 

KNIGHT,  SARAH Jour,  on  Horseback  from  Bost.  to  N.  Y.  1666-1727 

KREBS,  JOHN  M Theologian 1804-1867 

LANMAN,  CHARLES Biographer jgig- 

LATIMER,  MARY  E.  (WORMELEY).      .    Novelist 1822- 

LAWRENCE,  WILLIAM  B Jurist 1800- 

LEA,  HENRY  C Historical  Writer 1825- 

LEDYARD,  JOHN Traveller 1751-1789 

LEE,  ARTHUR Political  Writer 1740-1792 

LEE,  ELIZA  BUCKMINSTER Memoirs  and  Tales 1794- 

LEE,  HANNAH  F Novels  and  Tales 1780-1865 


Xlli  LIST    OF    WRITERS. 

LEE,  HENRY Memoirs 1756-1818 

LEE,  RICHARD  HENRY Orator  and  Statesman.  .   .   , 1732-1794 

LEGGETT,  WILLIAM Political  Writer 1802-1840 

LESLIE,  ELIZA Novelist  and  Au.  of  Tales  and  Sketches.  1787-1856 

LEWIS,  ALONZO Poet 1824- 

LEWIS,  TAYLER Theologian 1802- 

LIEBER,  FRANCIS Writer  on  Public  Law 1800- 

LINN,  JOHN  BLAIR Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer 1777-1804 

LIPPINCOTT,  SARA  J Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer 1823- 

LIVERMORE,  ABIEL  A Theologian 1811- 

LIVINGSTON,  EDWARD Jurist 1764-1836 

LIVINGSTON,  WILLIAM Political  Writer  and  Poet 1723-1790 

LOCKE,  D.  R.  (Nasby) Political  Satirist 1833- 

LOGAN,  JAMES, Philosopher 1674-1751 

LOOMIS,  ELIAS Physicist 1830- 

LOSSING,  BENSON  J Illustrator  of  History. 1813- 

LOTHROP,  SAMUEL  K Miscellaneous  Writer. 1804- 

LORD,  ELEAZAR Theologian 1788-1871 

Low,  SAMUEL Poet 1765- 

LOWELL,  ANNA  C Miscellaneous  Writer 

LUDLOW,  FITZHUGH Magazine  Writer 1837-1870 

MACILVAINE,  CHARLES  R Theologian 1798- 

MACKENZIE,  R.  SHELTON Miscellaneous  Writer 1809- 

MACKIE,  JOHN  MILTON Miscellaneous  Writer 1813- 

MADISON,  JAMES Statesman  and  Political  Writer 1751-1813 

MAHAN,  DENNIS  H Writer  on  Military  Science 1802-1871 

MANNING,  JACOB  M Theologian 

MANSFIELD,  EDWARD  D Jurist  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .   .   .  1801- 

MARSHALL,  JOHN Jurist  and  Biographer 1755-1835 

MASON,  JOHN  M Theologian  and  Pulpit  Orator 1770-1829 

MATHER,  COTTON Theologian  and  Annalist. 1663-1728 

MATHER,  INCREASE Theologian 1639-1723 

MATTHEWS,  CORNELIUS Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writef.     .   .   .  1817- 

MAURY,  MATTHEW  F.    ............    Physical  Geographer iSoS- 

MAYER,  BRANTZ Traveller 1809- 

MAYO,  SARAH  C.  E Poet 1819-1848 

MAYO,  WILLIAM  S Traveller 1812- 

McCLURG,  JAMES Medical  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .   .  1747-1825 

McCoRD,  LOUISA  S Poet 1810- 

McGEE,  THOMAS  D'ARCY. Miscellaneous  Writer 1825-1868 

MclNTOSH,  MARIA  J Novelist 1803- 

MCK.ENZIE,  ALEXANDER  S Traveller  and  Biographer 1803-1848 

MCLELLAN,   ISAAC,  JR Poet 1810- 

McMiCHAEL,   MORTON Journalist 1807- 

MILBURN,  WILLIAM  H Miscellaneous  Writer 1823- 

MILES,  PLINY Miscellaneous  Writer 1818-1865 

MILLER,  SAMUEL Theologian 1769-1850 

MINOT,  GEORGE  R Historian 1758-1802 

MITCHELL,  ORMSBY  MACK Astronomer 1810-1862 

MITCHELL,  SAMUEL  L Writer  on  Natural  Science.' 1764-1831 

MOORE,  CLEMENT  C Poet  and  Professor  of  Bib.  Literature.  .  1779-1863 

MOORE,  FRANK Historical  Writer,  &c 1828- 

MOKRIS,  EDWARD  JOY Travels 1815- 


LIST    OF    WRITERS.  xliii 

MORRIS,  GoutERNEUR Political  Writer 1752-1816 

MORSE,  JEDIDIAH Theologian,  Geographer,  and  Annalist.     1761-1826 

MORTON,  NATHANIEL Annalist 1613-1685 

MORTON,  SAMUEL  G Medical  Writer 1799-1851 

MORTON,  SARAH  W.  (APTHORP).    .   .    Poet 1759-1846 

MOUNTFORD,  WILLIAM Miscellaneous  Writer. 1838- 

MUHLENBERG,  WILLIAM  A Theologian  and  Poet about  1800- 

MUNFORD,  WILLIAM Poet  and  Dramatist, 1775-1825 

MUNSELL,  JOEL Annalist 1808- 

MURRAY,  LINDLEY Grammarian,  &c 1745-1826 

MURRAY,  NICHOLAS Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .   1802-1861 

MURRAY,  W.  H.  H Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .  1840- 

MYERS,  P.  HAMILTON Novelist 1812- 

NACK,  JAMES Poet 1807- 

NEAL,  JOSEPH  C Author  of  Sketches 1807-1847 

NEVILLE,  MORGAN Journalist,  &c 1786-1859 

NEVIN,  JOHN  W Theologian 1803- 

NEWCOMB,  HARVEY Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     .  .  .  1803-1863 

NEWELL,  ROBERT  H Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.      .   .   .  1836- 

NOAH,  MORDECAI  M Journalist  and  Dramatist 1785-1851 

NOBLE,  Louis  L Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     .  .   .  1812- 

NORDHOFF,  CHARLES Miscellaneous  Writer 1830- 

NORMAN,  BENJAMIN  M Traveller 1809-1860 

NORTON,  CHARLES  ELIOT Miscellaneous  Writer 

NORTON,  JOHN Theologian 1606-1663 

NOTT,  ELIPHALET Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .  1773-1866 

NOTT,  JOSIAH  C Ethnologist 1804- 

NOURSE,  JAMES  D Miscellaneous  Writer 1816-1854 

NOYES,  GEORGE  R Theol.,  Trans.  Hebrew  Scriptures,  &c. .  1798-1868 

O'BRIEN,  FITZ  JAMES Poet  and  Magazinist 1829-1862 

QLIN,  STEPHEN Theologian 1797-1851 

OLMSTED,  DENISON Astronomer 1791-1859 

OLMSTED,  FREDERICK  LAW Traveller,  and  Writer  on  Landscape  Gar.  1822- 

OSBORXE,  LAUGHTON Poet about  1807- 

OSGOOD,  FRANCES  (SARGENT).     .  .  •   Poet 1812-1850 

OSGOOD,  SAMUEL Theologian 1812- 

OTIS,  HARRISON  GRAY Orator  and  Political  Writer 1765-1848 

OWEN,  ROBERT  DALE Political  and  Miscellaneous  Writer. .   .   1801- 

PAINE,  ROBERT  TREAT,  JR Poet 1773-1811 

PAINE,  THOMAS »  .  .   Political  Writer 1737-1809 

PALFREY,  SARAH  H Poet  and  Novelist 

PALMER,  RAY Theologian  and  Poet 1808- 

PARKE,  JOHN Translator  and  Poet 1750- 

PARKER,  JOEL Jurist  and  Political  Writer. 1795- 

PARKER,  JOEL. Theologian 1799- 

PARSONS,  THEOPHILUS Jurist 1750-1813 

PARSONS,  THEOPHILUS Jurist  and  Theologian 1797- 

PARTON,  SARA  P.  (WILLIS) Novelist  and  Essayist 1811- 

PEABODY,  ANDREW  P Theologian  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .  1811- 

PEABODY,  ELIZABETH  P.    ......   Miscellaneous  Writer 1804- 

PEABODY,  OLIVER  W.  B Miscellaneous  Writer 1799-1840 


xliv 


LIST    OF    WRITERS. 


PEABODY,  WILLIAM  B.  O Miscellaneous  Writer '.   .  1799-1847 

PEIRCE,  BENJAMIN Mathematician  and  Astronomer.     .   .   .  1809- 

PERKINS,  SAMUEL Historical  Writer 1767-1850 

PERRY,  NORA Poat 

PETERS,  RICHARD Jurist 1744-1828 

PETERS,  SAMUKL Author  of  Burlesque  History  of  Conn.  .  1735-1817 

PHELPS,  ALMIRA  H.  (LINCOLN).  .  .  .    Author  of  Educational  Works 1793- 

PHELPS,  ELIZABETH  STUART.     .  .  .  Tales,  &c 1815-1852 

PHELPS,  SYLVANUS  DKYUEN Poet 1816- 

PHILLEO,  CALVIN  W Novelist 1822-1858 

PICKERING,  HENRY Poet 1781-1838 

PICKERING,  JOHN Jurist  and  Philologist 1777-1846 

PICKERING,  OCTAVIUS Jurist 1792-1868 

PIERCE,  BRADFORD  K Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  1819- 

PIKE,  ALBERT Poet 1809- 

PIKE,  MRS.  FREDERICK  A Novelist 1819- 

PINKNEY,  WILLIAM Orator  and  Political  Writer. 1764-1822 

PISE,  CHARLES  CONSTANTINE.     .  .   .  Theologian  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  1802-1866 

PLUMER,  WILLIAM  S Theologian 1802- 

POLLARD,  EDWARD  A Political  Writer 

POND,  ENOJH Theologian 1791- 

POOLE,  WILLIAM  F Bibliographer 1821- 

POORE,  BENJAMIN  PERLEY Journalist  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .  1820- 

PORTER,  EBENEZER Theologian 1772-1834 

POTTER,  ALONZO Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  1800-1865 

PRAY,  ISAAC  C Post  and  Dramatist 1813-1869 

PRENTICE,  GEORGE  D Journalist,  Wit,  and  Poet 1802-1870 

PRESTON,  WILLIAM  C Orator  and  Political  Writer 1794-1860 

PRIME,  SAMUEL  J Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  1812- 

PRIME,  WILLIAM  C Traveller 1825- 

PRINCE,  THOMAS Annalist 1687-1758 

PROCTOR,  EDNA  DEAN Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     .  .  . 

PUTNAM,  MARY  LOWELL Historical  Writer  and  Essayist 1810- 

RAFINESQUE,  CONSTANTINE  S.    .  .  .  Botanist 1784-1842 

RAMSAY,  DAVID Historian 1749-1815 

RANTOUL,  ROBERT,  JR Political  Writer 1805-1852 

RAY,  ISAAC Medical  Writer 1807- 

REDFIELD,  ISAAC  F Jurist 1804- 

REDPATH,  JAMES. Journalist 1833- 

REED,  HENRY Lecturer  on  English  Literature.      .  .   .  1808-1854 

REED,  HOLLIS Theologian  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  1802- 

REED,  WILLIAM  B Miscellaneous  Writer 1^06- 

REID,  MAYNE Tales,  &c 1818- 

RICB,  N.  L Theologian 

RICHARDSON,  ABBY  SAGB Miscellaneous  Writer 

RICHARDSON,  ALBERT  D Journalist 1833-1869 

RIPLEY,  GEORGE Critic,  Tlieo.  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  1802- 

RITTENHOUSE,  DAVID Mathematician  and  Astronomer.     .   .   .  1732-1796 

RIVES,  WILLIAM  C Miscellaneous  Writer 1793-1868 

ROBINSON,  EDWARD Theologian 1794-1863 

ROBINSON,  FAYETTE Miscellaneous  Writer -1859 

ROBINSON.THERESEA.L.  (VON  JACOB).  Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     .  .   .  1797-1869 

ROBINSON,  WILLIAM  S Political  Writer 1818- 


LIST    OF    WRITERS.  xlv 

ROE,  AZEL  S Novelist 1798- 

ROSE,  AQUILA Poet 1695-1723 

ROWSON,  SUSANNA Novelist  and  Dramatist 1762-1824 

RUSH,  BENJAMIN Medical,  Political,  and  Miscel.  Writer.  1745-1813 

SABINE,  LORENZO Historian  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .    1803- 

SANDERS,  FREDERIC Miscellaneous  Writer 1807- 

SANDERSON,  JOHN Miscellaneous  Writer 1783-1844 

SANDS,  ROBERT  C Poet .  .   1799-1832 

SANFORD,  EDWARD Poet  and  Miscellaneous  Writer 1805- 

SARGENT,  Lucius  MANLIUS Author  of  Tales,  and  Miscel.  Writer.    .   1786-1867 

SAVAGE,,  JAMES Antiquarian  and  Annalist 1784- 

SAVAGE,  JOHN Poet  and  Journalist 1828- 

SAY,  THOMAS Naturalist 1787-1834 

SCHAFF,  PHILIP Theologian 1819- 

SCHMUCKER,  SAMUEL  M Miscellaneous  Writer 1823-1863 

SCHMUCKER,  SAMUEL  S Theologian *799~ 

SCHOOLCRA FT,  HENRY  Rows Author  of  Accounts  of  N.  A.  Indians.   .    1793-1864 

SCHOULER,  WILLIAM Historian 

SCOTT,  WILLIAM  A Theologian 1833- 

SEARS,  BARNAS Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     1802- 

SEARS,  EDMUND  H Theologian  and  Poet 1810- 

SEARS,  EDWARD  J Critic  and  Essayist 

SEARS,  ROBERT Compiler 1810- 

SECCOMB,  JOHN Comic  Poet 1708-1792 

SEDGWICK,  THEODORE Political  Writer ia»  1-1859 

SEELVE,  JULIUS  H 

SEWALL,  JONATHAN  M Poet 1745-1808 

SEWARD,  WILLIAM  H Statesman 1801- 

SHARSWOOD,  GEORGE Jurist 1810- 

SHAW,  JOHN Poet 1778-1809 

SHAW,  HENRY  W.  (Josh  Billings).   .  .   Humorist 1818- 

SHAW,  LEMUEL Jurist 1781-1861 

SHEDD,  WILLIAM  G.  T Miscellaneous  Writer  and  Theologian.  .   1820- 

SHELTON,  FREDERICK  W Miscellaneous  Writer 1814- 

SHEPARD,  THOMAS Theologian 1605-1649 

SHILLABER,  BENJAMIN  P Humorist 1814- 

SHREVE,  THOMAS  H Poet  and  Novelist 1808-1853 

SHURTLEFF,  NATHANIEL  B Antiquarian  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    1820- 

SILLIMAN,  BENJAMIN Physicist 1779-1864 

SMITH,  BUCKINGHAM Historical  Writer 1810-1871 

SMITH,  ELIHU  H Medical  Writer.  Dramatist,  &c 1771-1798 

SMITH,  ELIZABETH  OAKES Poet,  &c 

SMITH,  HENRY  B Theologian 1815- 

SMITH,  JEROME  V.  C Medical  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .   .   1800- 

SMITH,  SAMUEL  F Theologian  and  Poet 1808- 

SMITH,  SEBA Humorist 1792-1868 

SMITH,  WILLIAM Theologian  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.      1726-1803 

SMYTH,  THOMAS Theologian 1808- 

SOUTHWORTH,  EMMA  D.  E.  N.    ...   Novelist 1818- 

SPALDING,  MARTIN  J Theologian 1810-1873 

SPARKS,  JARED Historian  and  Biographer 1789-1866 

SPOONER,  LYSANDER Political  and  Economic  Writer 1808- 

SPRAGUE,  WILLIAM  B Theologian 1795- 


xlvi  LIST    OF    WRITERS. 

SPRING,  GARDINER Theologian 1785- 

SQUIER,  EPHRAIM  G Traveller  and  Archaeologist 1821- 

STAPLES,  WILLIAM  R Historical  Writer 1798-1868 

STAUGHTON,  WILLIAM Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     1770-1829 

STEPHENS,  ALEXANDER  H Political  Writer 1812- 

STEPHENS,  ANNE  S Novelist  and  Miscellaneous  Writer    .   .    1813- 

STEPHENS,  JOHN  L Traveller 1805- 

STEVENS,  ABEL Theologian „  1815- 

STILES,  EZRA Theologian,  Biographer,  &c 1727-1795 

STOCKTON,  THOMAS  H Theologian 1808-1868 

STONE,  WILLIAM  L Journalist  and  Historical  Writer.    .   .   .   1792-1844 

STOKER,  DAVID  H Writer  on  Med.  and  Nat.  Science,     .   .    1804- 

STORRS,  RICHARD  S Theologian 1821- 

STORY,  ISAAC Poet 1774-1803 

STOW,  BARON Theologian,  i 1801-1869 

STOWE,  CALVIN  E Theologian 1802- 

STRICKLAND,  WILLIAM  P Theologian 1809- 

STRONG,  NATHAN Theologian 1748-1816 

STROTHER,  COLONEL  (Porte  Crayon).  Miscellaneous  Writer. 

STUART,  MOSES Theologian 1780-1852 

SULLIVAN,  JAMES Political  Writer 1744-1808 

SULLIVAN,  WILLIAM Political  Writer 1774-1839 

SUMNER,  GEORGE Legal  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .   .    .    1817-1863 

SWEAT,  MARGARET  J.  M Miscellaneous  Writer 1823- 

SWINTON,  WILLIAM Historical  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .    1833- 

TAPPAN,  WILLIAM  B Poet 1794-1849 

TEFFT,  BENJAMIN  F Miscellaneous  Writer 1813- 

TENNENT,  GILBERT Theologian 1703-1764 

TERHUNB,  MARY  V.  (Marion  Harland).  Novelist 

THACHER,  JAMES Medical  Writer  and  Annalist 1754-1844 

THACHER,  PETER Theologian  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     1752-1802 

THATCHER,  BENJAMIN  B Miscellaneous  Writer 1809-1846 

THAYER,  ALEXANDER  W Musical  Writer '.   .   .   . 

THOMAS,  FREDERICK  WILLIAM.  .  .  .   Poet  and  Novelist 1808-1866 

THOMAS,  ISAIAH Historian  of  Printing 1749-1831 

THOMPSON,  AUGUSTUS  C Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    1812- 

THOMPSON,  BENJ.  (Count  Rumford.)  .    Natural  Philosopher 1753-1814 

THOMPSON,  DANIEL  P Novelist 1795-1868 

THOMPSON,  JOHN  R Journalist 1823- 

THOMPSON,  JOSEPH  P Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     1819- 

THOMPSON,  ZADOCK Naturalist 1796-1856 

TICKNOR,  GEORGE Historian  of  Spanish  Literature.     .   .   .   1791-1871 

TILTON,  THEODORE Poet  and  Journalist .  .   .   1835- 

TODD,  JOHN Theologian  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .   1800- 

TOMES,  ROBERT Miscellaneous  Writer 1816- 

TOMPSON,  BENJAMIN Poet 1642-1714 

TOWNSEND,  JOHN  K Miscellaneous  Writer 1803-1861 

TKAFTON,  ADELINE Travels 

TRAI.L,  RUSSKLL  T Medical  Writer 1812- 

TICESCOTT,  WILLIAM  H Political  and  Historical  Writer 1822- 

TRUMBULL,  JAMES  HAMMOND.     .   .   .   Philologist  and  Historian 1821- 

TKUMBULL,  ROBERT. Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.     1809- 

TUCKER,  GEORGE Miscellaneous  Writer 1775-1861 


LIST    OF    WRITERS.  xlvii 

TUCKER,  BEVERLEY  N Jurist  and  Novelist 1784-1851 

TUDOR,  WILLIAM Biographer  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  1779-1830 

TURELL,  JANE  COLMAN Poet 1708-1735 

TURNBULL,  ROBERT Theologian 1809- 

TUTHILL,  LOUISA  C Author  of  Tales,  &c about  1800- 

TYLER,  BENNETT Theologian 1783-1858 

TYLER,  ROYAL Jurist,  Poet,  and  Dramatist 1757-1826 

TYNG,  STEPHEN  H Theologian 1800- 

UPHAM,  CHARLES  W Historian 1802- 

UPHAM,  THOMAS  C Metaphysician 1799- 

VAUX,  ROBERT Philanthropist 1786-1836 

VERPLANCK,  GULIAN  C Miscellaneous  Writer. 1786-1870 

VICTOR,  METTA  V.  (FULLER).     .  .  .  Miscellaneous  Writer 1831- 

WAINWRIGHT,  JONATHAN  M Theologian 1793-1854 

WALKER,  AMASA Writer  on  Political  Economy *799~ 

WALKER,  JAMES Theologian 1794~ 

WALLACE,  HORACE  B Legal  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .   .   .  1817-1852 

WALLACE,  WILLIAM  Ross. Poet 1819- 

WALSH,  ROBERT Political  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .   .  1784-1859 

WARD,  NATHANIEL (Seep,  xiv.) 1570-1653 

WARE,  HENRY,  JR Theologian  and  Poet 1794-1843 

WARE,  MARY  (GREENE) Miscellaneous  Writer 1818- 

WARFIELD,  CATHARINE  A. Poet  and  Novelist 1817- 

WARNER,  SUSAN Novelist 1818- 

WARRE.V,  JOHN  C Medical  Writer 1778-1856 

WARREN,  MERCY  OTIS Historian  and  Poet 1728-1815 

WATERHOUSE,  BENJAMIN Med.  and  Naturalist 1754-1846 

WATERSTON,  ROBERT  C Theologian  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  1812- 

WATSON,  HENRY  C Musical  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.    .   .  1831- 

WEBBER,  CHARLES  W Author  of  Border  Romances 1819-1856 

WEBSTER,  NOAH Lexicographer. 1758-1843 

WEED,  THURLOW Journalist 1797- 

WEEMS,  MASON  L Biographer about  1740-1825 

WEISS,  JOHN Theologian  and  Metaphysician 1818- 

WELBY,  AMELIA  B Poet 1819-1852 

WELLS,  DAVID  A '.   .  .   Writer  on  Political  Econ.  and  Nat.  Sci.  1828- 

WETMORE,  PROSPER  M Miscellaneous  Writer. 1798- 

WHARTON,  FRANCIS ,   .   Jurist 1820- 

WHEATLEY,  PHILLIS Poet 1753-1784 

WHEATON,  HENRY Writer  on  International  Law 1785-1848 

WHITE,  WILLIAM Theologian,  &c 1748-1836 

WHITING,  WILLIAM Jurist 1813- 

WHITMAN,  SARAH  HELEN Poet 1813- 

WHITNEY,  ANNE Poet. 

WHITNEY,  WILLIAM  D Philologist 1827- 

WHITTLESEY,  CHARLES Miscellaneous  Writer 1808- 

WlGGLESWORTH,    MlCHAEL.    .....    Poet 1631-1705 

WIGHT.  ORLANDO  W Miscellaneous  Writer 1824- 

WILCOX,  CARLOS Poat 1794-1827 

WiLLARD,  EMMA  C.  (HART),   ....  Author  of  Educational  Works,  &c.    .   .  1787-1870 

WILLARD,  SAMUEL. Theologian 1640-1707 


LIST    OF    WRITERS. 

WILLIAMS,  ROGER Theologian 1599-1683 

WILLIAMSON,  HUGH Historian  of  North  Carolina 1735-1819 

WILSON,  ALEXANDER. Ornithologist 1766-1819 

WILSON,  HENRY Political  Writer.  .* 1812- 

WILSON,  JAMES  GRANT Miscellaneous  Writer 1832- 

WINTER,  WILLIAM Poet 1836- 

WINTHROP,  JOHN Annalist 1538-1649 

WINTHROP,  JOHN Natural  Philosopher 1714-1765 

WINTHROP,  THEODORE. Novelist 1828-1861 

WIRT,  WILLIAM Orator  and  Biographer 1772-1834 

WISE,  HENRY  A Author  of  Stories  and  Sketches 1819-1869 

WITHERSPOON,  JOHN Theologian  and  Political  Writer.    .   .   .  1722-1794 

WOOD,  ANNE  Y.  (WILBUR) Miscellaneous  Writer 1817- 

WOODBURY,  LEVI Jurist  and  Political  Writer 1789-1851 

WOODS,  LEONARD Theologian 1774-1854 

Woo LMAN,  JOHN Author  of  an  Autobiog.  Journal,  &c.     .  1720-1772 

WORCESTER,  JOSEPH  E Lexicographer 1784-1865 

WRIGHT,  ELIZUR Political  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  .   .  1804- 

WYMAN,  JEFFRIES. Anatomist 1814- 

YOUMANS,  EDWARD  L •  Writer  on  Science 1828- 

YOUNG,  ALEXANDER. Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Writer.  1800-1854 


HAND-BOOK 


OF. 


AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

Benjamin  Franklin  was  born  in  Boston,  January  6  (O.  S.),  1706.  He  was  one  of  the 
youngest  of  a  family  of  seventeen  children,  and  received  but  a  limited  common  school  edu- 
cation. As  he  early  manifested  an  adventurous  disposition,  and  proposed  going  to  sea,  his 
father  bound  him  as  an  apprentice  to  his  brother  James,  who  was  a  printer.  His  daily 
employment  stimulated  his  active  mind  ;  he  became  an  assiduous  reader,  and  gradually 
acquired  the  power  of  writing.  At  the  age  of  seventeen,  having  quarrelled  with  his  brother, 
he  went  to  New  York  and  Philadelphia  in  search  of  employment.  His  account  of  this  trip 
forms  an  amusing  portion  of  his  autobiography,  one  of  the  most  charming  works  in  the  lan- 
guage. After  many  vicissitudes  he  became  a  successful  business  man,  and  constantly  grew 
in  public  estimation  as  a  philosophic  inquirer,  a  man  fertile  in  wise  projects  for  the  general 
good,  and  endowed  with  the  clear  perceptions  and  sound  judgment  of  a  statesman. 

His  first  work  that  attained  a  general  popularity  was  "  Poor  Richard's  Almanac,"  which 
appeared  in  1732,  and  was  continued  for  many  years.  The  homely  proverbs  which  accom- 
panied the  calendars  form  an  epitome  of  thrift,  foresight,  and  worldly  prudence.  He  learned 
Latin  and  several  modern  languages  after  he  was  twenty-seven  years  old.  At  the  age  of 
forty  he  commenced  the  researches  in  electricity  which  made  his  name  immortal.  But  with 
his  active  mind  and  liberal  principles  he  was  unable  to  keep  out  of  political  affairs  ;  and  in 
the  long  discussions  that  preceded  the  revolution  he  took  a  leading  pan.  His  mission  to 
the  French  court,  which  resulted  in  bringing  the  aid  of  fleets  and  armies  to  his  struggling 
countrymen,  and  his  other  diplomatic  successes  in  England  and  on  the  continent,  are  mat- 
ters of  history,  of  which  no  school-boy  is  ignorant.  He  lived  on  till  1790,  the  Nestor  of  the 
young  republic,  exerting  an  influence  upon  the  opinions  and  character  of  the  people  that  is 
without  a  parallel. 

If  his  precepts  may  be  considered  as  tending  too  much  to  selfishness,  it  must  not  be  for- 
gotten that  labor,  diligence,  and  economy  were  vitally  necessary  for  a  new  country,  and  that 
the  accumulation  of  capital,  no  less  than  courage  and  free  principles,  was  essential  to  the 
preservation  of  the  nation's  life.  Whilst  we  do  ample  justice  to  the  wisdom,  probity,  and 
beneficence  of  our  great  philosopher  and  statesman,  we  can  yet  recognize  a  higher  ideal  of 
character,  and  we  may  aspire  to  a  more  complete  and  generous  culture  than  was  possible  in 
his  time. 

The  works  of  Franklih  have  been  published  in  ten  volumes,  edited  by  the  late  President 
Sparks.  The  autobiography,  which  first  appeared  in  London,  was  wantonly  garbled  by  the 
editor,  William  Temple  Franklin,  a  grandson  of  the  author.  A  new  version  has  recently 


2         HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

appeared,  —  edited  by  John  Bigelow,  late  United  States  minister  to  France,  —  which  is 
beheved  to  follow  the  original  with  literal  exactness.  The  style  of  this  work  is  inimitable ; 
it  is  as  simple,  direct,  and  idiomatic  as  Bunyan's  ;  it  is  a  style  which  no  rhetorician  can  assist 
us  to  attain,  and  which  the  least  touch  of  the  learned  critic  would  spoil. 

[Fiom  the  Autobiography.] 

I  WAS  put  to  the  grammar  school  at  eight  years  of  age,  my  father 
intending  to  devote  me,  as  the  tithe  of  his  sons,  to  the  service  of  the 
church.  My  early  readiness  in  learning  to  read  (which  must  have 
been  very  early,  as  I  do  not  remember  when  I  could  not  read),  and 
the  opinion  of  all  his  friends,  that  I  should  certainly  make  a  good 
scholar,  encouraged  him  in  this  purpose  of  his.  My  uncle  Benjamin, 
too,  approved  of  it,  and  proposed  to  give  me  all  his  short-hand  vol- 
umes of  sermons,  I  suppose  as  a  stock  to  set  up  with,  if  I  would 
learn  his  character.  I  continued,  however,  at  the  grammar  school 
not  quite  one  year,  though  in  that  time  I  had  risen  gradually  from 
the  middle  of  the  class  of  that  year  to  be  the  head  of  it,  and  further 
was  removed  into  the  next  class  above  it,  in  order  to  go  with  that 
into  the  third  at  the  end  of  the  year.  But  my  father,  in  the  mean 
time,  from  a  view  of  the  expense  of  a  college  education,  which,  hav- 
ing so  large  a  family,  he  could  not  well  afford,  and  the  mean  living 
many  so  educated  were  afterwards  able  to  obtain,  —  reasons  that  he 
gave  to  his  friends  in  my  hearing,  —  altered  his  first  intention,  took 
me  from  the  grammar  school,  and  sent  me  to  a  school  for  writing 
and  arithmetic,  kept  by  a  then  famous,  man,  Mr.  George  Brownell, 
very  successful  in  his  profession  generally,  and  that  by  mild,  encour- 
aging methods.  Under  him  I  acquired  fair  writing  'pretty  soon,  but 
I  failed  in  the  arithmetic,  and  made  no  progress  in  it.  At  ten  years 
old  I  was  taken  home  to  assist  my  father  in  his  business,  which  was 
that  of  a  tallow-chandler  and  soap-boiler  ;  a  business  he  was  not  bred 
to,  but  had  assumed  on  his  arrival  in  New  England,  and  on  finding 
his  dyeing  trade  would  not  maintain  his  family,  being  in  little  request. 
Accordingly,  I  was  employed  in  cutting  wick  for  the  candles,  filling 
the  dipping  mould  and  the  moulds  for  cast  candles,  attending  the 
shop,  going  of  errands,  &c. 

I  disliked  the  trade,  and  had  a  strong  inclination  for  the  sea,  but 
my  father  declared  against  it ;  however,  living  near  the  water,  I  was 
much  in  and  about  it,  learnt  early  to  swim  well,  and  to  manage  boats  ; 
and  when  in  a  boat  or  canoe  with  other  boys,  I  was  commonly  al- 
lowed to  govern,  especially  in  any  case  of  difficulty ;  and  upon  other 
occasions  I  was  generally  a  leader  among  the  boys,  and  sometimes 
led  them  into  scrapes,  of  which  I  will  mention  one  instance,  as  it 


•          BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN.  3 

shows  an  early  projecting  public  spirit,  though  not  then  justly  con- 
ducted. 

There  was  a  salt  marsh  that  bounded  part  of  the  mill-pond,  on  the 
edge  of  which,  at  high  water,  we  used  to  stand  to  fish  for  minnows. 
By  much  trampling,  we  had  made  it  a  mere  quagmire.  My  proposal 
was  to  build  a  wharf  there  fit  for  us  to  stand  upon,  and  I  showed  my 
comrades  a  large  heap  of  stones,  which  were  intended  for  a  new 
house  near  the  marsh,  and  which  would  very  well  suit  our  purpose. 
Accordingly,  in  the  evening,  when  the  workmen  were  gone,  I 
assembled  a  number  of  my  play-fellows,  and  working  with  them  dili- 
gently like  so  many  emmets,  sometimes  two  or  three  to  a  stone,  we 
brought  them  all  away,  and  built  our  little  wharf.  The  next  morning 
the  workmen  were  surprised  at  missing  the  stones,  which  were  found 
in  our  wharf.  Inquiry  was  made  after  the  removers  ;  we  were  dis- 
covered and  complained  of ;  several  of  us  were  corrected  by  our 
fathers ;  and,  though  I  pleaded  the  usefulness  of  the  work,  mine  con- 
vinced me  that  nothing  was  useful  which  was  not  honest. 

I  think  you  may  like  to  know  something  of  his  person  and  char- 
acter. He  had  an  excellent  constitution  of  body,  was  of  middle  stat- 
ure, but  well  set,  and  very  strong ;  he  was  ingenious,  could  draw 
prettily,  was  skilled  a  little  in  music,  and  had  a  clear,  pleasing  voice, 
so  that  when  he  played  psalm  tunes  on  his  violin  and  sung  withal, 
as  he  sometimes  did  in  an  evening  after  the  business  of  the  day  was 
over,  it  was  extremely  agreeable  to  hear.  He  had  a  mechanical 
genius  too,  and,  on  occasion,  was  very  handy  in  the  use  of  other 
tradesmen's  tools ;  but  his  great  excellence  lay  in  a  sound  under- 
standing and  solid  judgment  in  prudential  matters,  both  in  private 
and  public  affairs.  In  the  latter,  indeed,  he  was  never  employed,  the 
numerous  family  he  had  to  educate  and  the  straitness  of  his  circum- 
stances keeping  him  close  to  his  trade  ;  but  I  remember  well  his 
being  frequently  visited  by  leading  people,  who  consulted  him  for  his 
opinion  in  affairs  of  the  town  or  of  the  church  he  belonged  to,  and 
showed  a  good  deal  of  respect  for  his  judgment  and  advice.  He  was 
also  much  consulted  by  private  persons  about  their  affairs  when  any 
diniculty  occurred,  and  frequently  chosen  an  arbitrator  between  con- 
tending parties.  At  his  table  he  liked  to  have,  as  often  as  he  could, 
some  sensible  friend  or  neighbor  to  converse  with,  and  always  took 
care  to  start  some  ingenious  or  useful  topic  for  discourse,  which 
might  tend  to  improve  the  minds  of  his  children.  By  this  means  he 
turned  our  attention  to  what  was  good,  just,  and  prudent  in  the  con- 
duct of  life  ;  and  little  or  no  notice  was  ever  taken  of  what  related  to 


4  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

the  victuals  on  the  table,  whether  it  was  well  or  ill  dressed,  in  or  out 
of  season,  of  good  or  bad  flavor,  preferable  or  inferior  to  this  or  that 
other  thing  of  the  kind ;  so  that  I  was  brought  up  in  such  a  perfect 
inattention  to  those  matters  as  to  be  quite  indifferent  what  kind  of 
food  was  set  before  me,  and  so  unobservant  of  it,  that  to  this  day  if 
I  am  asked  I  can  scarce  tell,  a  few  hours  after  dinner,  what  I  dined 
upon.  This  has  been  a  convenience  to  me  in  travelling,  where  my 
companions  have  been  sometimes  very  unhappy  for  want  of  a  suita- 
ble gratification  of  their  more  delicate,  because  better  instructed, 
tastes  and  appetites.  .  .  . 

From  a  child  I  was  fond  of  reading,  and  all  the  little  money  that 
came  into  my  hands  was  ever  laid  out  in  books.  Pleased  with  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  my  first  collection  was  of  John  Bunyan's  works, 
in  separate  little  volumes.  I  afterwards  sold  them  to  enable  me  to 
buy  R.  Burton's  Historical  Collections  ;  they  were  small  chapmen's 
books,  and  cheap,  forty  or  fifty  in  all.  My  father's  little  library  con- 
sisted chiefly  of  books  in  polemic  divinity,  most  of  which  I  read,  and 
have  since  often  regretted  that,  at  a  time  when  I  had  such  a  thirst 
for  knowledge,  more  proper  books  had  not  fallen  in  my  way,  since  it 
was  now  resolved  I  should  not  be  a  clergyman.  Plutarch's  Lives 
there  was,  in  which  I  read  abundantly,  and  I  still  think  that  time 
spent  to  great  advantage.  There  was  also  a  book  of  De  Foe's,  called 
an  Essay  on  Projects,  and  another  of  Dr.  Mather's,  called  Essays  to 
do  Good,  which  perhaps  gave  me  a  turn  of  thinking  that  had  an 
influence  on  some  of  the  principal  future  events  of  my  life. 

This  bookish  inclination  at  length  determined  my  father  to  make 
me  a  printer,  though  he  had  already  one  son  (James)  of  that  profes- 
sion. In  1717  my  brother  James  returned  from  England  with  a 
press  and  letters,  to  set  up  his  business  in  Boston.  I  liked  it  much 
better  than  that  of  my  father,  but  still  had  a  hankering  for  the  sea. 
To  prevent  the  apprehended  effect  of  such  an  inclination,  my  father 
was  impatient  to  have  me  bound  to  my  brother.  I  stood  out  some 
time,  but  at  last  was  persuaded,  and  signed  the  indentures  when  I 
was  yet  but  twelve  years  old.  I  was  to  serve  as  an  apprentice  till  I 
was  twenty-one  years  of  age,  only  I  was  to  be  allowed  journeyman's 
wages  during  the  last  year.  In  a  little  time  I  made  great  proficiency 
in  the  business,  and  became  a  useful  hand  to  my  brother.  I  now 
had  access  to  better  books.  An  acquaintance  with  the  apprentices 
of  booksellers  enabled  me  sometimes  to  borrow  a  small  one,  which  I 
was  careful  to  return  soon  and  clean.  Often  I  sat  up  in  my  room 
reading  the  greatest  part  of  the  night,  when  the  book  was  borrowed 


BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN.  5 

in  the  evening  and  to  be  returned  early  in  the  morning,  lest  it  should 
be  missed  or  wanted. 

And  after  some  time  an  ingenious  tradesman,  Mr.  Matthew 
Adams,  who  had  a  pretty  collection  of  books,  and  who  frequented 
our  printing-house,  took  notice  of  me,  invited  me  to  his  library,  and 
very  kindly  lent  me  such  books  as  I  chose  to  read.  I  now  took  a 
fancy  to  poetry,  and  made  some  little  pieces  ;  my  brother,  thinking 
it  might  turn  to  account,  encouraged  me,  and  put  me  on  composing 
occasional  ballads.  One  was  called  The  Lighthouse  Tragedy,  and 
contained  an  account  of  the  drowning  of  Captain  Worthilake,  with 
his  two  daughters  :  the  other  was  a  sailor's  song,  on  the  taking  of 
Teach  (or  Blackbeard)  the  pirate.  They  were  wretched  stuff,  in  the 
Grub  Street  ballad  style  ;  and  when  they  were  printed  he  sent  me 
about  the  town  to  sell  them.  The  first  sold  wonderfully,  the  event 
being  recent,  having  made  a  great  noise.  This  flattered  my  vanity ; 
but  my  father  discouraged  me  by  ridiculing  my  performances,  and 
telling  me  verse-makers  were  generally  beggars.  So  I  escaped 
being  a  poet,  most  probably  a  very  bad  one  ;  but  as  prose  writing 
has  been  of  great  use  to  me  in  the  course  of  my  life,  and  was  a  prin- 
cipal means  of  my  advancement,  I  shall  tell  you  how.  in  such  a  situ- 
ation, I  acquired  what  little  ability  I  have  in  that  way.  .  .  . 

About  this  time  I  met  with  an  odd  volume  of  the  Spectator.  It 
was  the  third.  I  had  never  before  seen  any  of  them.  I  bought  it, 
read  it  over  and  over,  and  was  much  delighted  with  it.  I  thought 
the  writing  excellent,  and  wished,  if  possible,  to  imitate  it.  With 
this  view  I  took  some  of  the  papers,  and,  making  short  hints  of  the 
sentiment  in  each  sentence,  laid  them  by  a  few  days,  and  then,  with- 
out looking  at  the  book,  tried  to  complete  the  papers  again,  by 
expressing  each  hinted  sentiment  at  length,  and  as  fully  as  it  had 
been  expressed  before,  in  any  suitable  words  that  should  come  to 
hand.  Then  I  compared  my  Spectator  with  the  original,  discov- 
ered some  of  my  faults,  and  corrected  them.  But  I  found  I  wanted 
a  stock  of  words,  or  a  readiness  in  recollecting  and  using  them, 
which  I  thought  I  should  have  acquired  before  that  time  if  I  had 
gone  on  making  verses  ;  since  the  continual  occasion  for  words  of 
the  same  import,  but  of  different  length,  to  suit  the  measure,  or  of 
different  sound  for  the  rhyme,  would  have  laid  me  under  a  constant 
necessity  of  searching  for  variety,  and  also  have  tended  to  fix  that 
variety  in  my  mind,  and  make  me  master  of  it.  Therefore  I  took 
some  of  the  tales  and  turned  them  into  verse,  and,  after  a  time, 
when  I  had  pretty  well  forgotten  the  prose,  turned  them  back  again. 


6         HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

I  also  sometimes  jumbled  my  collections  of  hints  into  confusion, 
and  after  some  weeks  endeavored  to  reduce  them  into  the  best 
order,  before  I  began  to  form  the  full  sentences  and  complete  the 
paper.  This  was  to  teach  me  method  in  the  arrangement  of  thoughts. 
By  comparing  my  work  afterwards  with  the  original,  I  discovered 
many  faults  and  amended  them  ;  but  I  sometimes  had  the  pleasure 
of  fancying  that,  in  certain  particulars  of  small  import,  I  had  been 
lucky  enough  to  improve  the  method  or  the  language  ;  and  this  en- 
couraged me  to  think  I  might  possibly  in  time  come  to  be  a  tolerable 
English  writer,  of  which  I  was  extremely  ambitious.  My  time  for 
these  exercises  and  for  reading  was  at  night,  after  work  or  before  it 
began  in  the  morning,  or  on  Sundays,  when  I  contrived  to  be  in  the 
printing-house  alone,  evading  as  much  as  I  could  the  common 
attendance  on  public  worship  which  my  father  used  to  exact  of 
me  when  I  was  under  his  care,  and  which  indeed  I  still  thought  a 
duty,  though  I  could  not,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  afford  time  to  prac- 
tise it.  ... 

My  brother  had,  in  1720  or  1721,  begun  to  print  a  newspaper.  It 
was  the  second  that  appeared  in  America,  and  was  called  the  New 
England  Courant.  .  .  . 

He  had  some  ingenious  men  among  his  friends,  who  amused  them- 
selves by  writing  little  pieces  for  this  paper,  which  gained  it  credit 
and  made  it  more  in  demand,  and  these  gentlemen  often  visited  us. 
Hearing  their  conversations,  and  their  accounts  of  the  approbation 
their  papers  were  received  with,  I  was  excited  to  try  my  hand  among 
them  ;  but,  being  still  a  boy,  and  suspecting  that  my  brother  would 
object  to  printing  anything  of  mine  in  his  paper  if  he  knew  it  to  be 
mine,  I  contrived  to  disguise  my  hand,  and,  writing  an  anonymous 
paper,  I  put  it  in  at  night  under  the  door  of  the  printing-house.  It 
was  found  in  the  morning,  and  communicated  to  his  writing  friends 
•when  they  called  in  as  usual.  They  read  it,  commented  on  it  in  my 
hearing,  and  I  had  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  finding  it  met  with  their 
approbation,  and  that,  in  their  different  guesses  at  the  author,  none 
were  named  but  men  of  some  character  among  us  for  learning  and 
ingenuity.  I  suppose  now  that  I  was  rather  lucky  in  my  judges,  and 
that  perhaps  they  were  not  really  so  very  good  ones  as  I  then  es- 
teemed them.  .  .  . 

I  have  been  the  more  particular  in  this  description  of  my  journey,* 
and  shall  be  so  of  my  first  entry  into  that  city,  that  you  may  in  your 

*  To  Philadelphia. 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN.  7 

mind  compare  such  unlikely  beginnings  with  the  figure  I  have  since 
made  there.  I  was  in  my  working  dress,  my  best  clothes  being  to 
come  round  by  sea.  I  was  dirty  from  my  journey ;  my  pockets 
were  stuffed  out  with  shirts  and  stockings,  and  I  knew  no  soul,  nor 
where  to  look  for  lodging.  I  was  fatigued  with  travelling,  rowing, 
and  want  of  rest  ;  I  was  very  hungry,  and  my  whole  stock  of  cash 
consisted  of  a  Dutch  dollar,  and  about  a  shilling  in  copper.  The 
latter  I  gave  the  people  of  the  boat  for  my  passage,  who  at  first 
refused  it  on  account  of  my  rowing ;  but  I  insisted  on  their  taking 
it.  A  man  being  sometimes  more  generous  when  he  has  but  a  little 
money  than  when  he  has  plenty,  perhaps  through  fear  of  being 
thought  to  have  but  little. 

Then  I  walked  up  the  street,  gazing  about,  till,  near  the  mar- 
ket-house, I  met  a  boy  with  bread.  I  had  made  many  a  meal  on 
bread,  and,  inquiring  where  he  got  it,  I  went  immediately  to  the 
baker's  he  directed  me  to,  in  Second  Street,  and  asked  for  bis- 
cuit, intending  such  as  we  had  in  Boston ;  but  they,  it  seems, 
were  not  made  in  Philadelphia.  Then  I  asked  for  a  three-penny 
loaf,  and  was  told  they  had  none  such.  So,  not  considering  or 
knowing  the  difference  of  money,  and  the  greater  cheapness  nor 
the  names  of  his  bread,  I  bade  him  give  me  three-penny  worth 
of  any  sort.  He  gave  me,  accordingly,  three  great  puffy  rolls. 
I  was  surprised  at  the  quantity,  but  took  it,  and,  having  no  room 
in  my  pockets,  walked  off  with  a  roll  under  each  arm,  and  eating 
the  other.  Thus  I  went  up  Market  Street  as  far  as  Fourth  Street, 
passing  by  the  door  of  Mr.  Read,  my  future  wife's  father ;  when 
she,  standing  at  the  door,  saw  me,  and  thought  I  made,  as  I  cer- 
tainly did,  a  most  awkward,  ridiculous  appearance.  Then  I  turned 
and  went  down  Chestnut  Street,  and  part  of  Walnut  Street,  eating 
my  roll  all  the  way,  and,  coming  round,  found  myself  again  at 
Market  Street  Wharf,  near  the  boat  I  came  in,  to  which  I  went 
for  a  draught  of  the  river  water  ;  and,  being  filled  with  one  of  my 
rolls,  gave  the  other  two  to  a  woman  and  her  child  that  came 
down  the  river  in  the  boat  with  us,  and  were  waiting  to  go 
farther. 

Thus  refreshed,  I  walked  again  up  the  street,  which  by  this 
time  had  many  clean-dressed  people  in  it,  who  were  all  walking 
the  same  way.  I  joined  them,  and  thereby  was  led  into  the  great 
meeting-house  of  the  Quakers,  near  the  market.  I  sat  down  among 
them,  and,  after  looking  round  a  while  and  hearing  nothing  said, 
being  very  drowsy  through  labor  and  want  of  rest  the  preceding 


8        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

night,  I  fell  fast  asleep,  and  continued  so  till  the  meeting  broke 
up,  when  one  was  kind  enough  to  rouse  me.  This  was,  therefore, 
the  first  house  I  was  in,  or  slept  in,  in  Philadelphia.  .  .  . 

I  believe  I  have  omitted  mentioning  that,  in  my  first  voyage  from 
Boston,  being  becalmed  off  Block  Island,  our  people  set  about  catch- 
ing cod,  and  hauled  up  a  great  many.  Hitherto  I  had  stuck  to  my 
resolution  of  not  eating  animal  food,  and  on  this  occasion  I  consid- 
ered, with  my  master  Tryon,  the  taking  every  fish  as  a  kind  of  un- 
provoked murder,  since  none  of  them  had,  or  ever  could  do  us  any 
injury  that  might  justify  the  slaughter.  All  this  seemed  very  reason- 
able. But  I  had  formerly  been  a  great  lover  of  fish,  and,  when  this 
came  hot  out  of  the  frying-pan,  it  smelt  admirably  well.  I  balanced 
some  time  between  principle  and  inclination,  till  I  recollected  that, 
when  the  fish  were  opened,  I  saw  smaller  fish  taken  out  of  their 
stomachs  ;  then  thought  I,  "  If  you  eat  one  another,  I  don't  see  why 
we  mayn't  eat  you."  So  I  dined  upon  cod  very  heartily,  and  con- 
tinued to  eat  with  other  people,  returning  only  now  and  then  occa- 
sionally to  a  vegetable  diet.  So  convenient  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a  rea- 
sonable creature,  since  it  enables  one  to  find  or  make  a  reason  for 
everything  one  has  a  mind  to  do.  ... 

I  began  now  gradually  to  pay  off  the  debt  I  was  under  for  the 
printing-house.  In  order  to  secure  my  credit  and  character  as  a 
tradesman,  I  took  care  not  only  to  be  in  reality  industrious  and  fru- 
gal, but  to  avoid  all  appearances  to  the  contrary.  I  dressed  plainly  ; 
I  was  seen  at  no  places  of  idle  diversion.  I  never  went  out  a  fishing 
or  shooting ;  a  book,  indeed,  sometimes  debauched  me  from  my 
work,  but  that  was  seldom,  snug,  and  gave  no  scandal ;  and,  to  show 
that  I  was  not  above  my  business,  I  sometimes  brought  home  the 
paper  I  purchased  at  the  stores  through  the  streets  on  a  wheelbar- 
row. Thus  being  esteemed  an  industrious,  thriving  young  man, 
and  paying  duly  for  what  I  bought,  the  merchants  who  imported  sta- 
tionery solicited  my  custom ;  others  proposed  supplying  me  with 
books  ;  and  I  went  on  swimmingly.  .  .  . 

About  this  time  our  club  meeting,  not  at  a  tavern,  but  in  a  little 
room  of  Mr.  Grace's,  set  apart  for  that  purpose,  a  proposition  was 
made  by  me,  that,  since  our  books  were  often  referred  to  in  pur  dis- 
quisitions upon  the  queries,  it  might  be  convenient  to  us  to  have 
them  all  together  where  we  met,  that  upon  occasion  they  might  be 
consulted  ;  and  by  thus  clubbing  our  books  to  a  common  library,  we 
should,  while  we  liked  to  keep  them  together,  have  each  of  us  the 
advantage  of  using  the  books  of  all  the  other  members,  which  would 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN.  9 

be  nearly  as  beneficial  as  if  each  owned  the  whole.  It  was  liked 
and  agreed  to,  and  we  filled  one  end  of  the  room  with  such  books 
as  we  could  best  spare.  The  number  was  not  so  great  as  we 
expected ;  and,  though  they  had  been  of  great  use,  yet  some  incon- 
veniences occurring  for  want  of  due  care  of  them,  the  collection, 
after  about  a  year,  was  separated,  and  each  took  his  books  home 
again. 

And  now  I  set  on  foot  my  first  project  of  a  public  nature  —  that  for 
a  subscription  library.  I  drew  up  the  proposals,  got  them  put  into 
form  by  our  great  scrivener,  Brockden,  and,  by  the  help  of  my  friends 
in  the  Junto,  procured  fifty  subscribers,  of  forty  shillings  each,  to 
begin  with,  and  ten  shillings  a  year  for  fifty  years,  the  term  our  com- 
pany was  to  continue.  We  afterwards  obtained  a  charter,  the  com- 
pany being  increased  to  one  hundred.  This  was  the  mother  of  all 
the  North  American  subscription  libraries,  now  so  numerous.  It  is 
become  a  great  thing  itself,  and  continually  increasing.  These 
libraries  have  improved  the  general  conversation  of  the  Americans, 
made  the  common  tradesmen  and  farmers  as  intelligent  as  most 
gentlemen  from  other  countries,  and  perhaps  have  contributed  in 
some  degree  to  the  stand  so  generally  made  throughout  the  colonies 
in  defence  of  their  privileges.  .  .  . 

My  scheme  of  ORDER  *  gave  me  the  most  trouble  ;  and  I  found 
that,  though  it  might  be  practicable  where  a  man's  business  was 
such  as  to  leave  him  the  disposition  of  his  time,  that  of  a  journeyman 
printer,  for  instance,  it  was  not  possible  to  be  exactly  observed  by  a 
master,  who  must  mix  with  the  world,  and  often  receive  people  of 
business  at  their  own  hours.  Order,  too,  with  regard  to  places  for 
things,  papers,  &c.,  I  found  extremely  difficult  to  acquire.  I  had 
not  been  early  accustomed  to  it,  and,  having  an  exceeding  good 
memory,  I  was  not  so  sensible  of  the  inconvenience  attending  want 
of  method.  This  article,  therefore,  cost  me  so  much  painful  atten- 
tion, and  my  faults  in  it  vexed  me  so  much,  and  I  made  so  little 
progress  in  amendment,  and  had  such  frequent  relapses,  that  I  was 
almost  ready  to  give  up  the  attempt,  and  content  myself  with  a  faulty 
character  in  that  respect,  like  the  man  who,  in  buying  an  axe  of  a 
smith,  my  neighbor,  desired  to  have  the  whole  of  its  surface  as  bright 
as  the  edge.  The  smith  consented  to  grind  it  bright  for  him  if  he 
would  turn  the  wheel.  He  turned,  while  the  smith  pressed  the  broad 
face  of  the  axe  hard  and  heavily  on  the  stone,  which  made  the  turning 

*  He  had  made  a  table  of  the  virtues,  for  his  use  in  daily  self-examination. 


IO  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

of  it  very  fatiguing.  The  man  came  every  now  and  then  from  the 
wheel  to  see  how  the  work  went  on,  and  at  length  would  take  his 
axe  as  it  was,  without  further  grinding.  "  No,"  said  the  smith, 
"  turn  on,  turn  on  ;  we  shall  have  it  bright  by  and  by  ;  as  yet  it  is 
only  speckled."  "  Yes,"  says  the  man,  "  but  I  think  I  like  a 
speckled  axe  best !  "  And  I  believe  this  may  have  been  the  case 
with  many,  who,  having,  for  want  of  some  such  means  as  I  em- 
ployed, found  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  good  and  breaking  bad 
habits  in  other  points  of  vice  and  virtue,  have  given  up  the  strug- 
gle, and  concluded  that  "  a  speckled  axe  'was  best ;  "  for  some- 
thing, that  pretended  to  be  reason,  was  every  now  and  then  suggest- 
ing to  me  that  such  extreme  nicety  as  I  exacted  of  myself  might  be 
a  kind  of  foppery  in  morals,  which,  if  it  were  known,  would  make  me 
ridiculous  ;  that  a  perfect  character  might  be  attended  with  the 
inconvenience  of  being  envied  and  hated ;  and  that  a  benevolent 
man  should  allow  a  few  faults  in  himself,  to  keep  his  friends  in 
countenance. 

In  truth,  I  found  myself  incorrigible  with  respect  to  Order;  and 
now  I  am  grown  old,  and  my  memory  bad,  I  feel  very  sensibly 
the  want  of  it.  But,  on  the  whole,  though  I  never  arrived  at  the 
perfection  I  had  been  so  ambitious  of  obtaining,  but  fell  far  short 
of  it,  yet  I  was,  by  the  endeavor,  a  better  and  a  happier  man 
than  I  otherwise  should  have  been  if  I  had  not  attempted  it ;  as 
those  who  aim  at  perfect  writing  by  imitating  the  engraved  copies, 
though  they  never  reach  the  wished-for  excellence  of  those  copies, 
their  hand  is  mended  by  the  endeavor,  and  is  tolerable  while  it 
continues  fair  and  legible. 

It  may  be  well  my  posterity  should  be  informed  that  to  this 
little  artifice,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  their  ancestor  owed  the 
constant  felicity  of  his  life,  down  to  his  seventy-ninth  year,*  in 
which  this  is  written.  What  reverses  may  attend  the  remainder 
is  in  the  hand  of  Providence  ;  but,  if  they  arrive,  the  reflection 
on  past  happiness  enjoyed  ought  to  help  his  bearing  them  with 
more  resignation.  To  temperance  he  ascribes  his  long-continued 
health,  and  what  is  still  left  to  him  of  a  good  constitution  ;  to 
industry  and  frugality,  the  early  easiness  of  his  circumstances 
and  acquisition  of  his  fortune,  with  all  that  knowledge  that  ena- 
bled him  to  be  a  useful  citizen,  and  obtained  for  him  some  degree 
of  reputation  among  the  learned  ;  to  sincerity  and  justice,  the  con- 
fidence of  his  country,  and  the  honorable  employs  it  conferred 

*  This  was  written,  therefore,  in  1785,  the  year  the  doctor  returned  from  Paris.  — B. 


JOHN    ADAMS.  II 

upon  him ;  and  to  the  joint  influence  of  the  whole  mass  of  the 
virtues,  even  in  the  imperfect  state  he  was  able  to  acquire  them, 
all  that  evenness  of  temper,  and  that  cheerfulness  in  conversation, 
which  makes  his  company  still  sought  for,  and  agreeable  even  to 
his  younger  acquaintance.  I  hope,  therefore,  that  some  of  my 
descendants  may  follow  the  example  and  reap  the  benefit. 


JOHN   ADAMS. 

John  Adams  was  born  in  Braintree,  in  that  part  now  forming  the  town  of  Quincy,  October 
19,  1735.  He  entered  Harvard  College  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  having  had  a  meagre  prepa- 
ration under  two  clerical  tutors.  The  fact  that  he  studied  Virgil  and  Homer  painfully  after 
his  graduation,  is  not  calculated  to  give  us  a  very  high  idea  of  the  state  of  classical  learning 
in  Cambridge  at  the  time.  He  taught  school  and  afterwards  read  law  in  Worcester.  He 
commenced  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  his  native  town  at  the  age  of  twenty-three,  and 
with  many  discouragements  slowly  won  his  way  to  the  first  place  among  lawyers.  He  was 
early  a  friend  of  the  popular  cause  against  the  British  government ;  but  his  sense  of  justice 
was  so  strong  that  he  undertook  the  defence  of  the  soldiers  concerned  in  what  has  been 
termed  the  Boston  Massacre,  at  the  risk  of  his  personal  popularity  and  business  interests. 
The  kind  of  courage  which  we  agree  to  call  "pluck"  was  always  the  eminent  characteristic 
of  the  elder  Adams.  From  the  time  of  the  discussions  upon  the  Stamp  Act  until  the  decla- 
ration of  independence,  the  life  of  John  Adams  is  a  part  of  our  national  history.  His 
patriotism,  courage,  eloquence,  and  zeal  have  been  celebrated  in  sentences  which  future 
generations  will  read  with  ever-increasing  enthusiasm.  Nor  is  there  space  even  to  mention 
his  services  and  honors  as  diplomatist,  vice  president,  and  president ;  every  school-boy 
knows  his  history. 

Mr.  Adams  lived  in  an  age  of  action,  and  had  little  time  for  rhetorical  arts.  But  few  of 
his  speeches  have  been  preserved.  His  letters  form  the  most  valuable  part  of  his  published 
works,  and  are  among  the  best  in  our  literature.  Those  addressed  to  his  wife,  in  particular, 
are  delightfully  frank,  tender,  and  manly. 

In  his  later  days,  when  the  doctrines  of  the  Federalists  had  become  unpopular,  Mr. 
Adams  suffered  unspeakable  indignities  from  political  enemies,  and  from  summer  friends  ; 
but  before  the  close  of  his  life  the  substantial  integrity  and  purity  of  his  character  were  hon- 
ored by  friends  and  foes  alike,  and  all  the  din  of  party  strife  was  hushed  in  admiration  of 
his  long  services  and  unselfish  patriotism. 

The  doctrines  of  his  antagonists  have  thus  far  prevailed,  for  the  most  part,  in  directing 
public  affairs  ;  but  it  is  not  settled  yet  that  universal  suffrage,  without  restraints  upon  the 
ignorant  and  vicious,  will  make  a  republic  either  perpetual  or  desirable. 

Mr.  Adams  died  at  the  ripe  age  of  ninety-one,  on  the  4th  of  July,  1826,  on  the  same  day 
with  his  illustrious  friend  and  rival,  Jefferson. 

His  Life  and  Letters  have  been  published,  in  ten  volumes,  under  the  care  of  his  grandson, 
Hon.  Charles  Francis  Adams. 

[From  a  Letter  to  his  Wife,  July  3,  1776.] 

YESTERDAY  the  greatest  question  was  decided  which  ever  was 
debated  in  America,  and  a  greater,  perhaps,  never  was,  nor  ever 
will  be,  decided  among  men.  A  resolution  was  passed,  without 
one  dissenting  colony,  "that  these  United  Colonies  are,  and  of 


12  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

right  ought  to  be,  free  and  independent  States,  and  as  such  they 
have,  and  of  right  ought  to  have,  full  power  to  make  war,  conclude 
peace,  establish  commerce,  and  to  do  all  other  acts  and  things 
which  other  States  may  rightfully  do."  You  will  see,  in  a  few  days, 
a  declaration  setting  forth  the  causes  which  have  impelled  us  to  this 
mighty  revolution,  and  the  reasons  which  will  justify  it  in  the  sight 
of  God  and  man.  A  plan  of  confederation  will  be  taken  up  in  a 
few  days. 

When  I  look  back  to  the  year  1761,  and  recollect  the  argument 
concerning  writs  of  assistance  in  the  superior  court,  which  I  have 
hitherto  considered  as  the  commencement  of  the  controversy  between 
Great  Britain  and  America,  and  run  through  the  whole  period  from 
that  time  to  this,  and  recollect  the  series  of  political  events,  the 
chain  of  causes  and  effects,  I  am  surprised  at  the  suddenness  as 
well  as  greatness  of  this  revolution.  Britain  has  been  filled  with 
folly,  and  America  with  wisdom  ;  at  least,  this  is  my  judgment. 
Time  must  determine.  It  is  the  will  of  Heaven  that  the  two  coun- 
tries should  be  sundered  forever.  It  maybe  the  will  of  Heaven  that 
America  shall  suffer  calamities  still  more  wasting,  and  distresses  yet 
t  more  dreadful.  If  this  is  to  be  the  case,  it  will  have  this  good  effect 
at  least :  it  will  inspire  us  with  many  virtues  which  we  have  not,  and 
correct  many  errors,  follies,  and  vices,  which  threaten  to  disturb, 
dishonor,  and  destroy  us.  The  furnace  of  affliction  produces  refine- 
\jnent  in  states  as  well  as  individuals.  And  the  new  governments  we 
are  assuming,  in  every  part,  will  require  a  purification  from  our  vices, 
and  an  augmentation  of  our  virtues,  or  they  will  be  no  blessings. 
The  people  will  have  unbounded  power,  and  the  people  are  extremely 
addicted  to  corruption  and  venality,  as  well  as  the  great.  But  I  must 
submit  all  my  hopes  and  fears  to  an  overruling  Providence,  in  which, 
unfashionable  as  the  faith  may  be,  I  firmly  believe. 

Had  a  declaration  of  independency  been  made  seven  months  ago, 
it  would  have  been  attended  with  many  great  and  glorious  effects. 
We  might  before  this  hour  have  formed  alliances  with  foreign  states. 
We  should  have  mastered  Quebec,  and  been  in  possession  of 
Canada. 

You  will,  perhaps,  wonder  how  such  a  declaration  would  have 
influenced  our  affairs  in  Canada  ;  but  if  I  could  write  with  freedom, 
I  could  easily  convince  you  that  it  would,  and  explain  to  you  the 
manner  how.  Many  gentlemen  in  high  stations  and  of  great  influ- 
ence have  been  duped  by  the  ministerial  bubble  of  commissioners 
to  treat.  And  in  real,  sincere  expectation  of  this  event,  which  they 


JOHN    ADAMS.  13 

so  fondly  wished,  they  have  been  slow  and  languid  in  promoting 
measures  for  the  reduction  of  that  province.  Others  there  are  in 
the  colonies  who  really  wished  that  our  enterprise  in  Canada  would 
be  defeated,  that  the  colonies  might  be  brought  into  dangei  and  dis- 
tress between  two  fires,  and  be  thus  induced  to  submit.  Others 
really  wished  to  defeat  the  expedition  to  Canada,  lest  the  conquest 
of  it  should  elevate  the  minds  of  the  peopte  too  much  to  hearken  to 
those  terms  of  reconciliation  which  they  believed  would  be  offered 
us.  These  jarring  views,  wishes,  and  designs  occasioned  an  opposi- 
tion to  many  salutary  measures,  which  were  proposed  for  the  sup- 
port of  that  expedition,  and  caused  obstructions,  embarrassments, 
and  studied  delays,  which  have  finally  lost  us  the  province.  All 
these  causes,  however,  in  conjunction,  would  not  have  disappointed 
us,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  misfortune  which  could  not  be  foreseen, 
and,  perhaps,  could  not  have  been  prevented.  I  mean  the  preva- 
lence of  the  small-pox  among  our  troops.  This  fatal  pestilence  com- 
pleted our  destruction.  It  is  a  frown  of  Providence  upon  us,  which 
we  ought  to  lay  to  heart. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  delay  of  this  declaration  to  this  time 
has  many  great  advantages  attending  it.  The  hopes  of  reconcilia- 
tion, which  were  fondly  entertained  by  multitudes  of  honest  and  well- 
meaning,  though  weak  and  mistaken,  people,  have  been  gradually, 
and  at  last  totally,  extinguished.  Time  has  been  given  for  the 
whole  people  maturely  to  consider  the  great  question  of  indepen- 
dence, and  to  ripen  their  judgments,  dissipate  their  fears,  and  allure 
their  hopes,  by  discussing  it  in  newspapers  and  pamphlets,  by  de- 
bating it  in  assemblies,  conventions,  committees  of  safety  and  inspec- 
tion, in  town  and  county  meetings,  as  well  as  in  private  conversa- 
tions, so  that  the  whole  people,  in  every  colony  of  the  thirteen,  have 
now  adopted  it  as  their  own  act.  This  will  cement  the  Union,  and 
avoid  those  heats,  and  perhaps  convulsions,  which  might  have  been 
occasioned  by  such  a  declaration  six  months  ago. 

But  the  day  is  past.  The  second  day  of  July,  1776,  will  be  the 
most  memorable  epocha  in  the  history  of  America.  I  am  apt  to  be- 
lieve that  it  will  be  celebrated  by  succeeding  generations  as  the  great 
anniversary  festival.  It  ought  to  be  commemorated,  as  the  day  of 
deliverance,  by  solemn  acts  of  devotion  to  God  Almighty.  It  ought 
to  be  solemnized  with  pomp  and  parade,  with  shows,  games,  sports, 
guns,  bells,  bonfires,  and  illuminations,  from  one  end  of  this  conti- 
nent to  the  other,  from  this  time  forward  forevermore. 

You  will  think  me  transported  with  enthusiasm;  but  I  am  not 


14        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

I  am  well  aware  of  the  toil,  and  blood,  and  treasure  that  it  will  cost 
us  to  maintain  this  declaration,  and  support  and  defend  these  states. 
Yet  through  all  the  gloom  I  can  see  the  rays  of  ravishing  light  and 
glory.  I  can  see  that  the  end  is  more  than  worth  all  the  means, 
and  that  posterity  will  triumph  in  that  day's  transaction,  even 
although  we  should  rue  it,  which  I  trust  in  God  we  shall  not. 


[To  Messrs.  Jacob  B.  Taylor,  John  Yates  Cebra,  Stuart  F.  Randolph,  R.  Riker,  and 
Henry  Arcularius,  a  committee  of  arrangements  of  the  city  corporation  of  New  York.] 

QUINCY,  xoth  June,  1826. 

GENTLEMEN  :  Your  very  polite  and  cordial  letter  of  invitation, 
written  to  me  in  behalf  of  the  city  corporation  of  New  York,  has 
been  gratefully  received,  through  the  kindness  of  General  J.  Morton. 

The  anniversary  you  propose  to  celebrate,  "  with  increased 
demonstrations  of  respect,"  in  which  you  invite  me  to  participate  in 
person,  is  an  event  sanctioned  by  fifty  years  of  experience,  and  it 
will  become  memorable  by  its  increasing  age,  in  proportion  as  its 
success  shall  demonstrate  the  blessings  it  imparts  to  our  beloved 
country,  and  the  maturity  it  may  attain  in  the  progress  of  time. 

Not  these  United  States  alone,  but  a  mighty  continent,  the  last 
discovered,  but  the  largest  quarter  of  the  globe,  is  destined  to  date 
the  period  of  its  birth  and  emancipation  from  the  4th  of  July,  1776. 

Visions  of  future  bliss  in  prospect,  for  the  better  condition  of 
the  human  race,  resulting  from  this  unparalleled  event,  might  be 
indulged,  but  sufficient  unto  the  day  be  the  glory  thereof;  and 
while  you,  gentlemen  of  the  committee,  indulge  with  your  fellow- 
citizens  of  the  city  of  New  York  in  demonstrations  of  joy  and 
effusions  of  hilarity  worthy  the  occasion,  the  wonderful  growth 
of  the  state  whose  capital  you  represent,  within  the  lapse  of  half 
a  century,  cannot  fail  to  convince  you  that  the  indulgence  of  en- 
thusiastic views  of  the  future  must  be  stamped  with  any  epithet 
other  than  visionary. 

I  thank  you,  gentlemen,  with  much  sincerity  for  the  kind  invi- 
tation with  which  you  have  honored  me,  to  assist  in  your  demon- 
strations of  respect  for  the  day  and  all  who  honor  it.  And,  in 
default  of  my  personal  attendance,  give  me  leave  to  propose,  as 
a  sentiment  for  the  occasion,  Long  and  lasting  prosperity  to  the 
City  and  State  of  New  York. 

I  am,  &c.,  JOHN  ADAMS. 


THOMAS   JEFFERSON.  15 


THOMAS   JEFFERSON. 

Thomas  Jefferson  was  born  at  Shadwell,  in  Albemarle  County,  Virginia,  April  2,  1743. 
He  received  a  classical  education  at  the  College  of  William  and  Mary,  and  subsequently 
studied  law.  He  was  successful  at  the  bar,  but  was  soon  drawn  away  from  practice  into 
political  life.  As  he  had  inherited  a  handsome  estate,  and  had  besides  a  large  fortune  with 
his  wife,  he  was  able  to  give  his  whole  time  to  public  affairs.  It  was  remarkable  that  a 
man  who  never  made  a  set  speech  should  have  been  the  most  able  and  most  successful  poli- 
tician of  his  time.  It  was  by  his  private  correspondence  that  he  disseminated  his  views, 
and  maintained  his  ascendency  as  a  party  leader.  Many  volumes  of  his  letters  have  been 
published,  but  it  is  probable  that  many  more  will  yet  be  discovered.  These,  with  his 
Notes  on  Virginia,  and  his  state  papers,  constitute  his  works.  His  name  will  forever 
be  connected  with  the  immortal  Declaration  of  Independence,  a  production  that  is  nearly 
as  conspicuous  in  literary  as  in  political  annals. 

During  his  whole  career,  as  member  of  the  House  of  Burgesses,  as  governor,  as  member 
of  the  Provincial  Congress,  as  secretary  of  state  under  Washington,  as  ambassador,  and 
as  president,  he  adhered,  with  a  singular  tenacity,  to  the  doctrines  of  equality  and  to  popu- 
lar rights  as  against  prescription.  It  was  owing  to  him  that  primogeniture  and  the  law  of 
entail,  the  chief  bulwarks  of  a  landed  aristocracy,  were  abolished  by  the  new  constitution  of 
Virginia.  His  influence  as  a  law  reformer  made  it  possible  for  that  state  to  adopt  and 
maintain  a  republican  form  of  government.  He  was  firmly  opposed  to  slavery,  although  a 
slaveholder,  and  strove,  by  legal  means,  to  prevent  its  increase,  and  to  prepare  the  way  for 
its  abolition.  He  was  averse  to  titles  of  honor,  and  maintained,  both  in  official  station  and 
at  home,  a  severe  republican  simplicity.  The  later  years  of  his  life  were  devoted,  in  a  great 
measure,  to  the  establishment  of  the  University  of  Virginia,  an  institution  in  which  he  took 
a  great  and  just  pride. 

Though  the  political  principles  of  Jefferson  were  warmly  combated  in  his  day,  and  by 
men  of  high  character  and  undoubted  patriotism,  yet  it  is  noticeable  that  his  ideas  have 
been  most  efficient  in  moulding  the  institutions  and  inspiring  the  legislation  of  the  country. 
This  influence  is  not  inherited  by  any  one  party;  it  has  come  to  pervade  all  thinking 
minds. 

The  style  of  Jefferson  is  easy,  natural,  and  perspicuous.  He  seldom  rises  to  eloquence, 
although  many  of  his  sentences  contain  powerful  strokes.  His  manners  were  very  attrac- 
tive, and  his  hospitality,  at  Monticello,  was  unbounded.  He  died  July  4,  1826,  just  fifty 
years  after  the  Declaration. 

Of  the  several  biographies  of  Jefferson,  the  best  is  by  H.  S.  Randall  (3  vols.,  8vo).  His 
works  were  published  by  order  of  Congress,  and  fill  nine  volumes.  A  new  selection  of  let- 
ters, including  some  not  before  printed,  has  recently  been  published  by  his  granddaughter, 
under  the  title  of  The  Domestic  Life  of  Jefferson. 

[From  the  Letters  of  Jefferson.] 
THE   CHARACTER   OF   WASHINGTON. 

His  mind  was  great  and  powerful,  without  being  of  the  very  first 
order  ;  his  penetration  strong,  though  not  so  acute  as  that  of  a  New- 
ton, Bacon,  or  Locke  ;  and,  as  far  as  he  saw,  no  judgment  was  ever 
sounder.  It  was  slow  in  operation,  being  little  aided  by  invention 
or  imagination,  but  sure  in  conclusion.  Hence  the  common  remark 
of  his  officers,  of  the  advantage  he  derived  from  councils  of  war, 


tt>  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

where,  hearing  all  suggestions,  he  selected  whatever  was  best ;  and 
certainly  no  general  ever  planned  his  battles  more  judiciously.  But 
if  deranged  during  the  course  of  the  action,  if  any  member  of  his 
plan  was  dislocated  by  sudden  circumstances,  he  was  slow  in  a  re- 
adjustment. The  consequence  was,  that  he  often  failed  in  the  field, 
and  rarely  against  an  enemy  in  station,  as  at  Boston  and  York.  He 
was  incapable  of  fear,  meeting  personal  dangers  with  the  calmest 
unconcern.  Perhaps  the  strongest  feature  in  his  character  was  pru- 
dence, never  acting  until  every  circumstance,  every  consideration, 
was  maturely  weighed  ;  refraining  if  he  saw  a  doubt,  but,  when  once 
decided,  going  through  with  his  purpose,  whatever  obstacles  opposed. 
His  integrity  was  most  pure,  his  justice  the  most  inflexible,  I  have 
ever  known,  no  motives  of  interest  or  consanguinity,  of  friendship  or 
hatred,  being  able  to  bias  his  decision.  He  was,  indeed,  in  every 
sense  of  the  words,  a  wise,  a  good,  and  a  great  man. 

His  temper  was  naturally  irritable  and  high-toned  ;  but  reflection 
and  resolution  had  obtained  a  firm  and  habitual  ascendency  over  it. 
If  ever,-  however,  it  broke  its  bonds,  he  was  most  tremendous  in 
his  wrath. 

In  his  expenses  he  was  honorable,  but  exact ;  liberal  in  contribu- 
tions to  whatever  promised  utility,  but  frowning  and  unyielding  on 
all  visionary  projects,  and  all  unworthy  calls  on  his  charity.  His 
heart  was  not  warm  in  its  affections,  but  he  exactly  calculated  every 
man's  value,  and  gave  him  a  solid  esteem  proportioned  to  it. 

His  person,  you  know,  was  fine,  his  stature  exactly  what  one 
would  wish,  his  deportment  easy,  erect,  and  noble ;  the  best  horse- 
man of  his  age,  and  the  most  graceful  figure  that  could  be  seen  on 
horseback.  Although  in  the  circle  of  his  friends,  where  he  might  be 
unreserved  with  safety,  he  took  a  free  share  in  conversation,  his 
colloquial  talents  were  not  above  mediocrity,  possessing  neither 
copiousness  of  ideas  nor  fluency  of  words.  In  public,  when  called, 
on  for  a  sudden  opinion,  he  was  unready,  short,  and  embarrassed. 
Yet  he  wrote  readily,  rather  diffusely,  in  an  easy  and  correct  style. 
This  he  had  acquired  by  conversation  with  the  world,  for  his  educa- 
tion was  merely  reading,  writing,  and  common  arithmetic,  to  which 
he  added  surveying  at  a  later  day.  His  time  was  employed  in  action 
chiefly,  reading  little,  and  that  only  in  agriculture  and  English 
history. 

His  correspondence  became  necessarily  extensive,,  and,  with  jour- 
nalizing his  agricultural  proceedings,  occupied  most  of  his  leisure 
hours  within  doors. 


THOMAS   JEFFERSON.  jg 

On  the  whole,  his  character  was,  in  its  mass,  perfect,  in  nothing 
bad,  in  few  points  indifferent ;  and  it  may  truly  be  said,  that  never 
did  nature  and  fortune  combine  more  perfectly  to  make  a  man  great, 
and  to  place  him  in  the  same  constellation  with  whatever  worthies 
have  merited  from  man  an  everlasting  remembrance.  For  his  was 
the  singular  destiny  and  merit  of  leading  the  armies  of  his  country 
successfully  through  an  arduous  war,  for  the  establishment  of  its  in- 
dependence ;  of  conducting  its  councils  through  the  birth  of  a  gov- 
ernment, new  in  its  forms  and  principles,  until  it  had  settled  down 
into  a  quiet  and  orderly  train;  and  of  scrupulously  obeying  the  laws 
through  the  whole  of  his  career,  civil  and  military,  of  which  the  his- 
tory of  the  world  furnishes  no  other  example. 


NAPOLEON. 

I  HAVE  just  finished  reading  O'Meara's  Bonaparte.  It  places 
him  in  a  higher  scale  of  understanding  than  I  had  allotted  him. 
I  had  thought  him  the  greatest  of  all  military  captains,  but  an  indif- 
ferent statesman,  and  misled  by  unworthy  passions.  The  flashes, 
however,  which  escaped  from  him  in  these  conversations  with 
O'Meara  prove  a  mind  of  great  expansion,  although  not  of  distinct 
development  and  reasoning. 

He  seizes  results  with  rapidity  and  penetration,  but  never  explains 
logically  the  process  of  reasoning  by  which  he  arrives  at  them. 
This  book,  too,  makes  us  forget  his  atrocities  for  a  moment,  in  com- 
miseration of  his  sufferings.  I  will  not  say  that  the  authorities  of 
the  world,  charged  with  the  care  of  their  country  and  people,  had 
not  a  right  to  confine  him  for  life,  as  a  lion  or  tiger,  on  the  princi- 
ples of  self-preservation.  There  was  no  safety  to  nations  while  he 
was  permitted  to  roam  at  large.  But  the  putting  him  to  death  in 
cold  blood,  by  lingering  tortures  of  mind,  by  vexations,  insults,  and 
deprivations,  was  a  degree  of  inhumanity  to  which  the  poisonings 
and  assassinations  of  the  school  of  Borgia  and  the  den  of  Marat 
never  attained.  The  book  proves,  also,  that  nature  had  denied  him 
the  moral  sense,  the  first  excellence  of  well-organized  man.  If  he 
could  seriously  and  repeatedly  affirm  that  he  had  raised  himself  to 
power  without  ever  having  committed  a  crime,  it  proves  that  he 
wanted  totally  the  sense  of  right  and  wrong.  If  he  could  consider 
the  millions  of  human  lives  which  he  had  destroyed,  or  caused  to  be 
destroyed ;  the  desolations  of  countries  by  plunderings,  burnings, 

2  / 


1 8        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

and  famine  ;  the  destitutions  of  lawful  rulers  of  the  world,  without  the 
consent  of  their  constituents,  to  place  his  brothers  and  sisters  on 
their  thrones ;  the  cutting  up  of  established  societies  of  men,  and 
jumbling  them  discordantly  together  again  at  his  caprice  ;  the  demo- 
lition of  the  fairest  hopes  of  mankind  for  the  recovery  of  their  rights 
and  amelioration  of  their  condition;  and  all  the  numberless  train  of 
his  other  enormities,  —  the  man,  I  say,  who  could  consider  all  these 
as  no  crimes,  must  have  been  a  moral  monster,  against  whom  every 
hand  should  have  been  lifted  to  slay  him. 


[From  the  Notes  on  Virginia.] 

IT  is  difficult  to  determine  on  the  standard  by  which  the  manners 
of  a  nation  may  be  tried,  whether  catholic  or  particular.  It  is  more 
difficult  for  a  native  to  bring  to  that  standard  the  manners  of  his 
own  nation,  familiarized  to  him  by  habit.  There  must  doubtless  be 
an  unhappy  influence  on  the  manners  of  our  people,  produced  by  the 
existence  of  slavery  among  us.  The  whole  commerce  between  mas- 
ter and  slave  is  a  perpetual  exercise  of  the  most  boisterous  passions, 
the  most  unremitting  despotism  on  the  one  part,  and  degrading  sub- 
missions on  the  other.  Our  children  see  this,  and  learn  to  imitate 
it  —  for  man  is  an  imitative  animal.  This  quality  is  the  germ  of  all 
education  in  him.  From  his  cradle  to  his  grave  he  is  learning  to  do 
what  he  sees  others  do.  If  a  parent  could  find  no  motive  either  in 
his  philanthropy  or  his  self-love  for  restraining  the  intemperance 
of  passion  towards  his  slave,  it  should  always  be  a  sufficient  one  that 
his  child  is  present.  But  generally  it  is  not  sufficient.  The  parent 
storms  ;  the  child  looks  on,  catches  the  lineaments  of  wrath,  puts  on 
the  same  airs  in  the  circle  of  smaller  slaves,  gives  loose  to  the  worst 
of  passions,  and  thus  nursed,  educated,  and  daily  exercised  in 
tyranny,  cannot  but  be  stamped  by  it  with  odious  peculiarities.  The 
man  must  be  a  prodigy  who  can  retain  his  manners  and  morals  un- 
depraved  by  such  circumstances.  And  with  what  execration  should 
the  statesman  be  loaded,  who,  permitting  one  half  the  citizens  thus 
to  trample  on  the  rights  of  the  other,  transforms  those  into  despots, 
and  these  into  enemies,  destroys  the  morals  of  the  one  part  and  the 
amor patria  of  the  other  !  For  if  a  slave  can  have  a  country  in  this 
world,  it  must  be  any  other  in  preference  to  that  in  which  he  is  born 
to  live  and  labor  for  another  ;  in  which  he  must  lock  up  the  facul- 
ties of  his  nature,  contribute  as  far  as  depends  on  his  individual  en- 
deavors to  the  evamshment  of  the  human  race,  or  entail  his  own 

\ 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON.  IQ 

miserable  condition  on  the  endless  generations  proceeding  from  him. 
With  the  morals  of  the  people,  their  industry* also  is  destroyed.  For 
in  a  warm  climate  no  man  will  labor  for  himself  who  can  make 
another  labor  for  him.  This  is  so  true,  that  of  the  proprietors  of 
slaves  a  very  small  proportion  indeed  are  ever  seen  to  labor.  And 
can  the  liberties  of  a  nation  be  thought  secure  when  we  have  re- 
moved their  only  firm  basis,  a  conviction  in  the  minds  of  the  people 
that  these  liberties  are  of  the  gift  of  God  ?  that  they  are  not  to  be 
violated  but  with  his  wrath  ?  Indeed,  I  tremble  for  my  country 
when  I  reflect  that  God  is  just ;  that  his  justice  cannot  sleep  for- 
ever ;  that,  considering  numbers,  nature,  and  natural  means  only, 
a  revolution  of  the  wheel  of  fortune,  an  exchange  of  situation,  is 
among  possible  events  ;  that  it  may  become  probable  by  supernatu- 
ral interference.  The  Almighty  has  no  attribute  which  can  take 
side  with  us  in  such  a  contest.  But  it  is  impossible  to  be  temperate 
and  to  pursue  this  subject  through  the  various  considerations  of 
policy,  of  morals,  of  history,  natural  and  civil.  We  must  be  con- 
tented to  hope  they  will  force  their  way  into  every  one's  mind. 
I  think  a  change  already  perceptible,  since  the  origin  of  the  present 
revolution.  The  spirit  of  the  master  is  abating,  that  of  the  slave 
rising  from  the  dust,  his  condition  mollifying,  the  way,  I  hope,  pre- 
paring, under  the  auspices  of  Heaven,  for  a  total  emancipation,  and 
that  this  is  disposed,  in  the  order  of  events,  to  be  with  the  consent 
of  the  masters,  rather  than  by  their  extirpation. 


[From  a  Letter  to  Mrs.  Adams.] 

I  COMMUNICATED  the  letters,  according  to  your  permission,  to  my 
granddaughter,  Ellen  Randolph,  who  read  them  with  pleasure  and 
edification.  She  is  justly  sensible  of,  and  flattered  by,  your  kind 
notice  of  her,  and  additionally  so  by  the  favorable  recollections  of 
our  northern  visiting  friends.  If  Monticello  has  anything  which  has 
merited  their  remembrance,  it  gives  it  a  value  the  more  in  our  esti- 
mation ;  and  could  I,  in  the  spirit  of  your  wish,  count  backward  a 
score  of  years,  it  would  not  be  long  before  Ellen  and  myself  would 
pay  our  homage  personally  to  Quincy.  But  those  twenty  years  ! 
Alas  !  where  are  they  ?  With  those  beyond  the  flood.  Our  next 
meeting  must,  then,  be  in  the  country  to  which  they  have  flown  —  a 
country  for  us  not  now  very  distant.  For  this  journey  we  shall  need 
neither  gold  nor  silver  in  our  purse,  nor  scrip,  nor  coats,  nor  staves. 
Nor  is  the  provision  for  it  more  easy  than  the  preparation  has  been 


2O  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

kind.  Nothing  proves  more  than  this  that  the  Being  who  presides 
over  the  world  is  essentially  benevolent,  stealing  from  us,  one  by 
one,  the  faculties  of  enjoyment,  searing  our  sensibilities,  leading  us, 
like  the  horse  in  his  mill,  round  and  round  the  same  beaten  circle,  — 

1 '  To  see  what  we  have  seen, 
To  taste  the  tasted,  and,  at  each  return, 
Less  tasteful ;  o'er  our  palates  to  decant 
Another  vintage,"  — 

until,  satiated  and  fatigued  with  this  leaden  iteration,  we  ask  our 
own  conge. 

I  heard  once  a  very  old  friend,  who  had  troubled  himself  with 
neither  poets  nor  philosophers,  say  the  thing  in  plain  prose,  that  he 
was  tired  of  pulling  off  his  shoes  and  stockings  at  night,  and  putting 
them  on  again  in  the  morning.  The  wish  to  stay  here  is  thus  grad- 
ually extinguished,  but  not  so  easily  that  of  returning  once  in  a 
while  to  see  how  things  have  gone  on.  Perhaps,  however,  one  of 
the  elements  of  future  felicity  is  to  be  a  constant  and  unimpassioned 
view  of  what  is  passing  here.  If  so,  this  may  well  supply  the  wish 
of  occasional  visits.  Mercier  has  given  us  a  vision  of  the  year  2440  ; 
but  prophecy  is  one  thing,  and  history  another.  On  the  whole,  how- 
ever, perhaps  it  is  wise  and  well  to  be  contented  with  the  good 
things  which  the  Master  of  the  feast  places  before  us,  and  to  be 
thankful  for  what  we  have,  rather  than  thoughtful  about  what  we 
have  not. 

You  and  I,  dear  madam,  have  already  had  more  than  an  ordinary 
portion  of  life,  and  more,  too,  of  health  than  the  general  measure. 
On  this  score  I  owe  boundless  thankfulness.  Your  health  was,  some 
time  ago,  not  so  good  as  it  had  been,  and  I  perceive  in  the  letters 
communicated  some  complaints  still.  I  hope  it  is  restored;  and 
that  life  and  health  may  be  continued  to  you  as  many  years  as  your- 
self shall  wish,  is  the  sincere  prayer  of  your  affectionate  and  respect- 
ful friend. 


JOHN   TRUMBULL. 

John  Trumbull  was  bom  in  Watertown,  Conn.,  April  24,  1750,  and  belonged  to  a  family 
distinguished  for  ability  and  character.  He  entered  Yale  College  at  the  age  of  thirteen, 
although  it  was  said  he  passed  a  satisfactory  examination  for  admission  when  he  was  seven 
years  old.  He  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Timothy  Dwight  in  college  and  in  after  life.  Iu 
1771  he  was  tutor  in  college  for  two  years,  and  afterwards  read  law  in  the  office  of  John 
Adams,  in  Boston.  It  was  a  good  school  for  law,  and  for  patriotism  likewise.  Upon  his 
return  to  New  Haven  in  1774,  he  began  the  composition  of  McFingal,  the  poem  by 


JOHN   TRUMBULL.  21 

which  he  became  famous.  This  attained  a  great  and  deserved  popularity.  It  is  obviously 
an  imitation  of  Hudibras  in  its  structure,  epigrammatic  turns  of  thought,  and  grotesque 
rhymes.  But  its  spirit  is  the  author's  own,  and  many  of  its  couplets  are  fully  as  pungent 
as  those  of  its  prototype.  It  has  been  often  observed  lhat  the  wit  of  one  generation  is  rarely 
appreciated  by  the  next,  and  this  is  especially  the  case  when  the  point  of  a  sentence  depends 
upon  a  knowledge  of  contemporaneous  persons  and  events.  The  jokes  that  require  an  ap- 
pendix for  their  elucidation  are  apt  to  miss  fire  with  the  reader.  For  this  reason  McFin- 
gal,  which  is  an  embodiment  of  the  spirit  of  the  revolution,  and  is,  in  its  way,  nearly 
as  good  as  Hudibras,  is  fast  going  to  oblivion.  A  few  passages  only  will  be  remembered. 
For  that  matter,  how  much  of  Hudibras  is  read?  Trumbull  wrote  another  poem  of 
some  length,  entitled  The  Progress  of  Dulness,  a  satire  upon  prevailing  errors  in  train- 
ing and  manners.  An  edition  of  his  works  was  published  in  Hartford  in  1820.  The 
McFingal,  with  notes  by  B.  J.  Lossing,  was  published  by  G.  P.  Putnam,  New  York,  1857. 
In  this  reprint  the  original  spelling  is  preserved. 

Mr.  Trumbull  was  never  robust  in  body,  but  he  lived  to  an  advanced  age.     He  died  at 
Detroit,  Michigan,  May  12,  1831. 

[Passages  from  McFingal.] 

WHEN  Yankies,  skill'd  in  martial  rule, 
First  put  the  British  troops  to  school ; 
Instructed  them  in  warlike  trade, 
And  new  manoeuvres  of  parade  ; 
The  true  war-dance  of  Yanky  reels, 
And  manual  exercise  of  heels  ; 
Made  them  give  up,  like  saints  complete, 
The  arm  of-flesh  and  trust  the  feet, 
And  work,  like  Christians,  undissembling, 
Salvation  out,  by  fear  and  trembling, 
Taught  Percy  fashionable  races, 
And  modern  modes  of  Chevy-chaces, 
From  Boston,  in  his  best  array, 
Great  'Squire  McFingal  took  his  way, 
And,  graced  with  ensigns  of  renown, 
Steer'd  homeward  to  his  native  town. 

Nor  only  saw  he  all  that  was, 
But  much  that  never  came  to  pass  ; 
Whereby  all  prophets  far  outwent  he  ; 
Tho'  former  days  produced  a  plenty  ; 
For  any  man,  with  half  an  eye, 
What  stands  before  him  may  espy  ; 
But  optics  sharp  it  needs,  I  ween, 
To  see  what  is  not  to  be  seen. 
As  in  the  days  of  antient  fame 
Prophets  and  poets  were  the  same, 


22        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

And  all  the  praise  that  poets  gain 
Is  but  for  what  th'  invent  and  feign, 
So  gain'd  our  'Squire  his  fame  by  seeing 
Such  things  as  never  would  have  being. 

But  as  some  musquets  so  contrive  it, 
As  oft  to  miss  the  mark  they  drive  at, 
And  thoj  well  aim'd  at  duck  or  plover, 
Bear  wide  and  kick  their  owners  over, 
So  far'd  our  'Squire,  whose  reas'ning  toil 
Would  often  on  himself  recoil, 
And  so  much  injur'd  more  his  side, 
The  stronger  arg'ments  he  applied  ; 
As  old  war  elephants,  dismay' d, 
Trode  down  the  troops  they  came  to  aid, 
And  hurt  their  own  side  more  in  battle, 
Than  less  and  ordinary  cattle. 

All  punishments  the  world  can  render, 
Serve  only  to  provoke  th'  offender  ; 
The  will's  confirm'd  by  treatment  horrid, 
As  hides  grow  harder  when  they're  curried. 
No  man  e'er  felt  the  halter  draw, 
With  good  opinion  of  the  law ; 
Or  held  in  method  orthodox 
His  love  of  justice  in  the  stocks  ; 
Or  fail'd  to  lose,  by  sheriff's  shears, 
At  once  his  loyalty  and  ears. 


TIMOTHY   DWIGHT. 

Timothy  Dwight  was  born  in  Northampton,  Mass.,  May  14,  1752.  He  was  a  descendant 
of  the  famous  Jonathan  Edwards,  and  related  in  blood  to  other  eminent  men.  He  entered 
Yale  College  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  and,  upon  his  graduation,  taught  school  in  New  Haven. 
He  served  as  chaplain  in  the  revolutionary  army,  under  General  Putnam,  and  devoted  him- 
self, with  great  zeal,  to  the  cause  of  liberty.  After  some  years  spent  in  preaching,  he  was 
chosen  president  of  Yale  College  in  1795,  in  which  office  he  continued  until  his  death,  in 
1817.  His  personal  influence  was  unbounded  over  students  and  parishioners,  and  his  unre- 
mitting industry  enabled  him  to  accomplish  a  vast  amount  of  literary  labor  in  addition  to 
his  daily  duties.  He  wrote  a  number  of  poems,  all  possessing  a  certain  kind  of  merit,  but 
not  sufficiently  inspired  to  give  them  a  permanent  place  in  literature.  His  best  remembered 
performance  is  the  patriotic  song,  beginning,  — 

"  Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 
The  queen  of  the  world,  and  child  of  the  skies." 


TIMOTHY    DWIGHT.  23 

His  principal  poems  are  The  Conquest  of  Canaan,  Greenfield  Hill  (which  has  a 
number  of  felicitous  rural  scenes),  and  The  Triumph  of  Infidelity.  Besides  a  number 
of  theological  treatises,  he  wrote  four  volumes  of  Travels  in  New  England  and  New 
York,  the  results  of  his  tours  in  college  vacations.  This  last  work  is  valuable  for  its  pic- 
tures of  scenery  and  manners  in  what  now  seems  a  remote  age.  The  author  had  an  in- 
stinctive feeling  for  the  picturesque,  but  the  narrative  lacks  simplicity,  and  the  descriptions 
are  overladen  with  epithets. 

THE   NOTCH    OF   THE   WHITE   MOUNTAINS. 

THE  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains  is  a  phrase  appropriated  to  a 
very  narrow  defile,  extending  two  miles  in  length,  between  two  huge 
cliffs,  apparently  rent  asunder  by  some  vast  convulsion  of  nature. 
The  entrance  of  the  chasm  is  formed  by  two  rocks  standing  perpen- 
dicularly at  the  distance  of  twenty-two  feet  from  each  other  —  one 
about  twenty  feet  in  height,  the  other  about  twelve.  Half  of  the 
space  is  occupied  by  the  brook  mentioned  as  the  head  stream  of  the 
Saco,  the  other  half  by  the  road.  The  stream  is  lost  and  invisible 
beneath  a  mass  of  fragments  partly  blown  out  of  the  road  and  partly 
thrown  down  by  some  great  convulsion. 

When  we  entered  the  Notch  we  were  struck  with  the  wild  and 
solemn  appearance  of  everything  before  us.  The  scale  on  which  all 
the  objects  in  view  were  formed  was  the  scale  of  grandeur  only. 
The  rocks,  rude  and  ragged  in  a  manner  rarely  paralleled,  were 
fashioned  and  filed  by  a  hand  operating  only  in  the  boldest  and  most 
irregular  manner.  As  we  advanced,  these  appearances  increased 
rapidly.  Huge  masses  of  granite  of  every  abrupt  form,  and  hoary 
with  moss,  which  seemed  the  product  of  ages,  recalling  to  the  mind 
the  saxum  vetustum  of  Virgil,  speedily  rose  to  a  mountainous  height. 
Before  us  the  view  widened  fast  to  the  south-east.  Behind  us  it 
closed  almost  instantaneously,  and  presented  nothing  to  the  eye  but 
an  impassable  barrier  of  mountains. 

About  half  a  mile  from  the  entrance  of  the  chasm  we  saw,  in  full 
view,  the  most  beautiful  cascade,  perhaps,  in  the  world.  It  issued 
from  a  mountain  on  the  right,  about  eight  hundred  feet  above  the 
subjacent  valley,  and  at  the  distance  from  us  of  about  two  miles.  The 
stream  ran  over  a  series  of  rocks  almost  perpendicular,  with  a  course 
so  little  broken  as  to  preserve  the  appearance  of  a  uniform  current, 
and  yet  so  far  disturbed  as  to  be  perfectly  white.  The  sun  shone, 
with  the  clearest  splendor,  from  a  station  in  the  heavens  the  most 
advantageous  to  our  prospect,  and  the  cascade  glittered  down  the 
vast  steep  like  a  stream  of  burnished  silver. 

At  the  distance  of  three  quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  entrance  we 
passed  a  brook,  known  in  this  region  by  the  name  of  The  Flume, 


24  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

from  the  strong  resemblance  to  that  object  exhibited  by  the  chan- 
nel, which  it  has  worn  for  a  considerable  length  in  a  bed  of  rocks, 
the  sides  being  perpendicular  to  the  bottom.  This  elegant  piece 
of  water  we  determined  to  examine  further,  and,  alighting  from  our 
horses,  walked  up  the  acclivity  perhaps  a  furlong.  The  stream  fell 
from  a  height  of  two  hundred  and  forty  or  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
over  three  precipices  ;  the  second  receding  a  small  distance  from  the 
front  of  the  first,  and  the  third  from  that  of  the  second.  Down  the 
first  and  second  it  fell  in  a  single  current,  and  down  the  third  in 
three,  which  united  their  streams  at  the  bottom  in  a  fine  basin, 
formed,  by  the  hand  of  nature,  in  the  rocks  immediately  beneath  us. 
It  is  impossible  for  a  brook  of  this  size  to  be  modelled  into  more 
diversified  or  more  delightful  forms,  or  for  a  cascade  to  descend  over 
precipices  more  happily  fitted  to  finish  its  beauty.  The  cliffs,  to- 
gether with  a  level  at  their  foot,  furnished  a  considerable  opening, 
surrounded  by  the  forest.  The  sunbeams,  penetrating  through  the 
trees,  painted  here  a  great  variety  of  fine  images  of  light,  and  edged 
an  equally  numerous  and  diversified  collection  of  shadows,  both  dan- 
cing on  the  waters,  and  alternately  silvering  and  obscuring  their 
course.  Purer  water  was  never  seen.  Exclusively  of  its  murmurs, 
the  world  around  us  was  solemn  and  silent.  Everything  assumed 
the  character  of  enchantment,  and,  had  I  been  educated  in  the  Gre- 
cian mythology,  I  should  scarcely  have  been  surprised  to  find  an 
assemblage  of  Dryads,  Naiads,  and  Oreads  sporting  on  the  little 
plain  below  our  feet.  The  purity  of  this  water  was  discernible  not 
only  by  its  limpid  appearance,  and  its  taste,  but  frorh  several  other 
circumstances.  Its  course  is  wholly  over  hard  granite  ;  and  the 
rocks  and  the  stones  in  its  bed  and  at  its  side,  instead  of  being  cov- 
ered with  adventitious  substances,  were  washed  perfectly  clean,  and, 
by  their  neat  appearance,  added  not  a  little  to  the  beauty  of  the 
scenery. 

From  this  spot  the  mountains  speedily  began  to  open  with  in- 
creased majesty,  and,  in  several  instances,  rose  to  a  perpendicular 
height  little  less  than  a  mile.  The  bosom  of  both  ranges  was  over- 
spread, in  all  the  inferior  regions,  by  a  mixture  of  evergreens  with 
trees,  whose  leaves  are  deciduous.  The  annual  foliage  had  been 
already  changed  by  the  frost.  Of  the  effects  of  this  change  it  is, 
perhaps,  impossible  for  an  inhabitant  of  Great  Britain,  as  I  have 
been  assured  by  several  foreigners,  to  form  an  adequate  conception, 
without  visiting  an  American  forest.  When  I  was  a  youth,  I  re- 
marked that  Thomson  had  entirely  omitted,  in  his  Seasons,  this  fine 


TIMOTHY    DWIGHT.  25 

part  of  autumnal  imagery.  Upon  inquiring  of  an  English  gentleman 
the  probable  cause  of  the  omission,  he  informed  me  that  no  such 
scenery  existed  in  Great  Britain.  In  this  country  it  is  often  among 
the  most  splendid  beauties  of  nature.  All  the  leaves  of  trees,  which 
are  not  evergreens,  are,  by  the  first  severe  frost,  changed  from  their 
verdure  towards  the  perfection  of  that  color  which  they  are  capable 
of  ultimately  assuming,  through  yellow,  orange,  and  red,  to  a  pretty 
deep  brown.  As  the  frost  affects  different  trees,  and  different  leaves 
of  the  same  tree,  in  very  different  degrees,  a  vast  multitude  of  tinc- 
tures are  commonly  found  on  those  of  a  single  tree,  and  always  on 
those  of  a  grove  or  forest.  These  colors  also,  in  all  their  varieties, 
are  generally  full,  and,  in  many  instances,  are  among  the  most  ex- 
quisite which  are  found  in  the  regions  of  nature.  Different  sorts  of 
trees  are  susceptible  of  different  degrees  of  this  beauty.  Among 
them  the  maple  is  pre-eminently  distinguished  by  the  prodigious  vari- 
eties, the  finished  beauty,  and  the  intense  lustre  of  its  hues,  varying 
through  all  the  dyes  between  a  rich  green  and  the  most  perfect 
crimson,  or,  more  definitely,  the  red  of  the  prismatic  image.  .  .  . 

I  have  remarked  that  the  annual  foliage  on  these  mountains  had 
been  already  changed  by  the  frost.  Of  course  the  darkness  of  the 
evergreens  was  finely  illumined  by  the  brilliant  yellow  of  the  birch, 
the  beech,  and  the  cherry,  and  the  more  brilliant  orange  and  crimson 
of  the  maple.  The  effect  of  this  universal  diffusion  of  gay  and 
splendid  light  was  to  render  the  preponderating  deep  green  more 
solemn. 

The  mind,  encircled  by  this  scenery,  irresistibly  remembered  that 
the  light  was  the  light  of  decay,  autumnal  and  melancholy.  The 
dark  was  the  gloom  of  evening,  approximating  to  night.  Over  the 
whole  the  azure  of  the  sky  cast  a  deep,  misty  blue,  blending,  towards 
the  summit,  every  other  hue,  and  predominating  over  all. 

As  the  eye  ascended  these  steeps,  the  light  decayed,  and  grad- 
ually ceased.  In  the  inferior  summits  rose  crowns  of  conical  firs 
and  spruces.  On  the  superior  eminences  the  trees,  growing  less 
and  less,  yielded  to  the  chilling  atmosphere,  and  marked  the  limit 
of  forest  vegetation.  Above,  the  surface  was  covered  with  a  mass 
of  shrubs,  terminating,  at  a  still  higher  elevation,  in  a  shroud  of 
dark-colored  moss. 

As  we  passed  onward  through  this  singular  valley,  occasional  tor- 
rents, formed  by  the  rains  and  dissolving  snows  at  the  close  of  win- 
ter, had  left  behind  them,  in  many  places,  perpetual  monuments  of 
their  progress  in  perpendicular,  narrow,  and  irregular  paths  of  itn- 


26  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

mense  length,  where  they  had  washed  the  precipices  naked  and 
white  from  the  summit  of  the  mountain  to  the  base.  Wide  and  deep 
chasms  also  met  the  eye,  both  on  the  summits  and  the  sides,  and 
strongly  impressed  the  imagination  with  the  thought  that  a  hand 
of  immeasurable  power  had  rent  asunder  the  solid  rocks,  and  tumbled 
them  into  the  subjacent  valley.  Over  all,  hoary  cliffs,  rising  with 
proud  supremacy,  frowned  awfully  on  the  world  below,  and  finished 
the  landscape. 

By  our  side  the  Saco  was  alternately  visible  and  lost,  and  in- 
creased, almost  at  every  step,  by  the  junction  of  tributary  streams. 
Its  course  was  a  perpetual  cascade,  and,  with  its  sprightly  murmurs, 
furnished  the  only  contrast  to  the  scenery  around  us. 


JOEL  BARLOW. 

Joel  Barlow  was  born  in  Reading,  Conn.,  in  1755.  He  entered  Dartmouth  College,  but 
completed  his  education  at  Yale.  During  the  vacations  he  served  in  the  army,  and  was 
present  at  the  battle  of  White  Plains.  Upon  his  graduation  he  studied  theology,  for  the 
purpose  of  becoming  a  chaplain,  and  after  six  weeks'  application  (which  seems  to  have  been 
considered  sufficient  to  equip  a  clergyman  militant),  he  was  licensed  to  preach,  and  served 
for  the  remainder  of  the  war.  His  Vision  of  Columbus  —  afterwards  expanded  into  the 
more  pretentious  and  less  pleasing  Columbiad  —  was  written  in  camp.  He  left  the  church 
and  the  army,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1785.  He  edited  a  newspaper  at  Hartford, 
and,  at  the  request  of  the  General  Association  of  Congregational  Ministers,  revised  and 
added  to  Dr.  Watts' s  version  of  the  Psalms.  One  of  Barlow's  versions,  commencing,  — 

"Along  the  banks  where  Babel's  current  flows,"  — 

retains  its  place  in  the  hymn  books. 

The  practical  poet  next  set  up  a  bookstore  to  dispose  of  his  own  wares,  which  being  done 
he  returned  to  his  profession.  In  1788  he  went  to  Europe,  and  remained  (mostly  in  France) 
seventeen  years.  It  is  impossible,  in  our  brief  limits,  to  follow  him  in  his  adventures.  He 
was  in  the  midst  of  the  French  revolution,  and  was  constantly  active  with  his  pen,  not  for- 
getting at  any  time  the  enterprise  and  thrift  of  the  true  Yankee  in  accumulating  property. 
On  his  return  to  the  United  S'tates,  in  1805,  he  settled  in  Washington.  He  was  the  object 
of  violent  hatred  on  the  part  of  the  Federalists,  and  his  name  was  linked  with  Jefferson's 
and  Paine's  in  a  savage  attack  in  verse  written  by  John  Quincy  Adams.  The  Columbiad 
appeared  in  1807,  a  costly  and  elegant  volume.  The  poem  is  vigorous  and  smoothly  versi- 
fied, after  the  style  of  Pope  and  Darwin,  but  has  little  of  true  poetry  in  all  its  sonorous  lines. 
The  Hasty  Puddine,  a  far  more  genial  composition,  was  written  abroad  in  1793,  and  was 
dedicated  to  Mrs.  Washington.  In  1809  he  was  about  beginning  a  history  of  the  United 
States,  when  his  design  was  interrupted  by  his  appointment  as  minister  to  France.  In 
October,  1812,  he  was  sent  for  by  Napoleon,  then  on  his  Russian  campaign,  to  meet  him 
at  Wilna.  His  rapid  journey  across  the  continent,  in  the  severely  cold  weather,  brought  on 
an  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  of  which  he  died  near  Cracow,  in  Poland,  December  22,  1812. 
From  his  dying  bed  he  dictated  a  poem,  entitled  Advice  to  a  Raven  in  Russia,  a  terribly 
bitter  attack  upon  Napoleon. 


JOEL    BARLOW.  2/ 

[From  The  Hasty  Pudding,  written  at  Chambery,  in  Savoy,  January,  1793.] 

Omne  tulit punctum  qui  miscuit  utile  dulci. 
"  He  makes  a  good  breakfast  who  mixes  pudding  with  molasses." 

O,  COULD  the  smooth,  the  emblematic  song 

Flow  like  thy  genial  juices  o'er  my  tongue, 

Could  those  mild  morsels  in  my  numbers  chime, 

And,  as  they  roll  in  substance,  roll  in  rhyme, 

No  more  thy  awkward,  unpoetic  name 

Should  shun  the  muse,  or  prejudice  thy  fame ; 

But  rising  grateful  to  the  accustomed  ear, 

All  bards  should  catch  it,  and  all  realms  revere. 

Assist  me  first  with  pious  toil  to  trace 

Through  weeks  of  time  thy  lineage  and  thy  race  ; 

Declare  what  lovely  squaw,  in  days  of  yore 

(Ere  great  Columbus  sought  thy  native  shore), 

First  gave  thee  to  the  world  ;  her  works  of  fame 

Have  lived  indeed,  but  lived  without  a  name. 

Some  tawny  Ceres,  goddess  of  her  days, 

First  learned  with  stones  to  crack  the  well-dried  maize, 

Through  the  rough  sieve  to  shake  the  golden  shower, 

In  boiling  water  stir  the  yellow  flour ; 

The  yellow  flour,  bestrewed  and  stirred  with  haste, 

Swells  in  the  flood  and  thickens  to  a  paste, 

Then  puffs  and  wallops,  rises  to'  the  brim, 

Drinks  the  dry  knobs  that  on  the  surface  swim; 

The  knobs  at  last  the  busy  ladle  breaks, 

And  the  whole  mass  its  true  consistence  takes. 

Could  but  her  sacred  name,  unknown  so  long, 

Rise,  like  her  labors,  to  the  son  of  song, 

To  her,  to  them,  I'd  consecrate  my  lays, 

And  blow  her  pudding  with  the  breath  of  praise. 

Thee  the  soft  nations  round  the  warm  Levant 

Polenta  call,  the  French,  of  course,  Polente. 

E'en  in  thy  native  regions  how  I  blush 

To  hear  the  Pennsylvanians  call  thee  Mush  / 

On  Hudson's  banks,  while  men  of  Belgic  spawn 

Insult  and  eat  thee  by  the  name  Suppawnj 

All  spurious  appellations,  void  of  truth. 

I've  better  known  thee  from  my  earliest  youth ; 


28        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Thy  name  is  Hasty  Pudding,  —  thus  my  sire 
Was  wont  to  greet  thee  fuming  from  his  fire. 

Let  the  green  succotash  with  thee  contend, 
Let  beans  and  corn  their  sweetest  juices  blend, 
Let  butter  drench  them  in  its  yellow  tide, 
And  a  long  slice  of  bacon  grace  their  side,  — 
Not  all  the  plate,  how  famed  soe'er  it  be, 
Can  please  my  palate  like  a  bowl  of  thee. 
Some  talk  of  Hoe  Cake,  fair  Virginia's  pride  ; 
Rich  Johnny  Cake  this  mouth  has  often  tried ; 
Both  please  me  well,  their  virtues  much  the  same, 
Alike  their  fabric,  as  allied  their  fame, 
Except  in  dear  New  England,  where  the  last 
Receives  a  dash  of  pumpkin  in  the  paste, 
To  give  it  sweetness  and  improve  the  taste. 
But  place  them  all  before  me,  smoking  hot  — 
The  big  round  dumpling  rolling  from  the  pot ; 
The  pudding  of  the  bag,  whose  quivering  breast, 
With  suet  lined,  leads  on  the  Yankee  feast ; 
The  Charlotte  brown,  within  whose  crusty  sides 
A  belly  soft  the  pulpy  apple  hides  ; 
The  yellow  bread  whose  face  like  amber  glows, 
And  all  of  Indian  that  the  bake-pan  knows,  — 
You  tempt  me  not  —  my  favorite  greets  my  eyes ; 
To  that  loved  bowl  my  spoon  by  instinct  flies. 

Milk,  then,  with  pudding  I  should  always  choose  ; 
To  this  in  future  I  confine  my  muse, 
Till  she  in  haste  some  further  hints  unfold, 
Good  for  the  young,  nor  useless  to  the  old. 
First  in  your  bowl  the  milk  abundant  take, 
Then  drop  with  care  *ilong  the  silver  lake 
Your  flakes  of  pudding  ;  these  at  first  will  hide 
Their  little  bulk  beneath  the  swelling  tide  ; 
But  when  their  growing  mass  no  more  can  sink, 
When  the  soft  island  looms  above  the  brink, 
Then  check  your  hand  ;  you've  got  the  portion  due 
So  taught  my  sire,  and  what  he  taught  is  true. 


ALEXANDER   HAMILTON.  29 


ALEXANDER   HAMILTON. 

Alexander  Hamilton  was  born  in  the  Island  of  Nevis,  in  the  West  Indies,  January  11, 
1757.  His  father  was  a  merchant  from  Scotland  ;  his  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  French 
Huguenot ;  and  the  son  appears  to  have  inherited,  in  equal  measure,  the  vigor  and  endur- 
ance of  the  one  race  and  the  address  and  vivacity  of  the  other.  His  education  was  not  at 
all  systematic  ;  but  his  active  mind  instinctively  found  its  proper  stimulants,  and  he  began 
to  show  his  great  natural  powers  at  an  early  age.  While  attending  to  his  studies  at  Colum- 
bia College,  in  New  York  city,  the  war  broke  out,  and  he  entered  the  patriot  army  as  a 
captain  of  artillery.  In  1777  he  was  made  aide-de-camp  to  General  Washington,  and  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  his  ability  in  correspondence  as  well  as  by  active  personal  service  in 
the  field.  At  the  close  of  the  war  he  commenced  the  practice  of  law  in  New  York.  His 
chief  work,  as  an  author,  was  the  series  of  papers  entitled  The  Federalist,  of  which  he 
wrote  the  greater  number  —  an  elaborate  exposition  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States.  These  papers,  though  necessarily  abstruse  in  character,  are  perspicuous  in  style 
and  powerful  in  reasoning.  He  was  the  first  secretary  of  the  treasury,  and  in  that  position 
he  displayed  unrivalled  skill.  The  sentences  of  Daniel  Webster  upon  Hamilton's  financial 
ability  are  worth  quoting  anew  :  "  He  smote  the  rock  of  the  national  resources,  and  abun- 
dant streams  of  revenue  gushed  forth.  He  touched  the  dead  corpse  of  the  public  credit,  and 
it  sprang  upon  its  feet." 

After  six  years'  service  Hamilton  retired  from  office,  and  resumed  the  practke  of  his  pro- 
fession. As  he  had  opposed  Aaron  Burr,  first  in  his  endeavors  to  become  president,  and 
afterwards  in  his  canvass  for  the  office  of  governor  of  New  York,  that  unscrupulous  dema- 
gogue, maddened  by  defeat,  challenged  him  to  fight  a  duel.  Hamilton  fell  at  the  first  fire, 
and  died  the  next  day,  July  12,  1804. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  among  the  brilliant  men  of  the  last  century  there  was  any  one 
who  was  distinguished  by  so  many  traits  that  win  the  admiration  of  the  world  as  was  Ham- 
ilton. Ability  of  the  highest  order  in  public  affairs,  literary  skill,  oratorical  power,  per- 
sonal intrepidity,  graceful  manners,  and  a  fine  presence,  have  rarely  been  seen  so  exempli- 
fied in  combination. 

The  extract  here  given  is  the  concluding  portion  of  a  letter  upon  the  treason  of  Arnold 
and  the  death  of  Andre,  written  to  Colonel  John  Laurens,  of  South  Carolina.  The  writings 
of  Hamilton  have  been  published,  in  seven  volumes,  by  his  son. 

[From  a  Letter  to  Colonel  Laurens.] 
THE  FATE   OF  ANDRE. 

NEVER,  perhaps,  did  any  man  suffer  death  with  more  justice,  or 
deserve  it  less.  The  first  step  he  took  after  his  capture  was  to 
write  a  letter  to  General  Washington,  conceived  in  terms  of 
dignity  without  insolence,  and  apology  without  meanness.  The 
scope  of  it  was  to  vindicate  himself  from  the  imputation  of  hav- 
ing assumed  a  mean  character  for  treacherous  or  interested  pur- 
poses ;  asserting  that  he  had  been  involuntarily  an  impostor ;  that 
contrary  to  his  intention,  which  was  to  meet  a  person  for  intelli- 
gence on  neutral  ground,  he  had  been  betrayed  within  our  posts, 
and  forced  into  the  vile  condition  of  an  enemy  in  disguise  ;  solicit- 
ing only  that  to  whatever  rigor  policy  might  devote  him,  a  decency 


3O        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

of  treatment  might  be  observed  due  to  a  person  who,  though  un- 
fortunate, had  been  guilty  of  nothing  dishonorable.  His  request 
was  granted  in  its  full  extent;  for  in  the  whole  progress  of  the 
affair  he  was  treated  with  the  most  scrupulous  delicacy.  When 
brought  before  the  board  of  officers,  he  met  with  every  mark  of 
indulgence,  and  was  required  to  answer  no  interrogatory  which 
would  even  embarrass  his  feelings.  On  his  part,  while  he  care- 
fully concealed  everything  that  might  implicate  others,  he  frankly 
confessed  all  the  facts  relating  to  himself;  and  upon  his  confession, 
without  the  trouble  of  examining  a  witness,  the  board  made  their 
report.  The  members  were  not  more  impressed  with  the  candor 
and  firmness,  mixed  with  a  becoming  sensibility,  which  he  dis- 
played, than  he  was  penetrated  with  their  liberality  and  politeness. 
He  acknowledged  the  generosity  of  their  behavior  towards  him  in 
every  respect,  but  particularly  in  this,  in  the  strongest  terms  of 
manly  gratitude.  In  a  conversation  with  a  gentleman  who  visited 
him  after  his  trial,  he  said  he  flattered  himself  he  had  never  been 
illiberal,  but  if  there  were  any  remains  of  prejudice  in  his  mind, 
his  present  experience  must  obliterate  them. 

In  one  of  the  visits  I  made  to  him  (and  I  saw  him  several  times 
during  his  confinement),  he  begged  me  to  be  the  bearer  of  a  re- 
quest to  the  general  for  permission  to  send  an  opened  letter  to  Sir 
Henry  Clinton.  "  I  foresee  my  fate,"  said  he,  "  and  though  I  pre- 
tend not  to  play  the  hero,  or  to  be  indifferent  about  life,  yet  I  am 
reconciled  to  whatever  may  happen,  conscious  that  misfortune,  not 
guilt,  has  brought  it  upon  me.  There  is  only  one  thing  that  dis- 
turbs my  tranquillity.  Sir  Henry  Clinton  has  been  too  good  to 
me  ;  he  has  been  lavish  of  his  kindness  ;  I  am  bound  to  him  by 
too  many  obligations,  and  love  him  too  well  to  bear  the  thought 
that  he  should  reproach  himself,  or  others  should  reproach  him, 
on  the  supposition  of  my  having  conceived  myself  obliged,  by  his 
instructions,  to  run  the  risk  I  did.  I  would  not,  for  the  world, 
leave  a  sting  in  his  mind  that  should  embitter  his  future  days." 
He  could  scarce  finish  the  sentence,  bursting  into  tears  in  spite 
of  his  efforts  to  suppress  them,  and  with  difficulty  collecting  him- 
self enough  afterwards  to  add,  "  I  wish  to  be  permitted  to  assure 
him  I  did  not  act  under  this  impression,  but  submitted  to  a  neces- 
sity imposed  upon  me,  as  contrary  to  my  own  inclinations  as  to  his 
orders."  His  request  was  readily  complied  with,  and  he  wrote  the 
letter  annexed,  with  which  I  dare  say  you  will  be  as  much  pleased 
as  I  am,  both  for  the  sentiment  and  diction. 


ALEXANDER    HAMILTON.  3! 

When  his  sentence  was  announced  to  him,  he  remarked  that, 
since  it  was  his  lot  to  die,  there  was  still  a  choice  in  the  mode 
which  would  make  a  material  difference  to  his  feelings,  and  he 
would  be  happy,  if  possible,  to  be  indulged  with  a  professional  death% 
He  made  a  second  application  by  letter,  in  concise  but  persuasive 
terms.  It  was  thought  that  this  indulgence,  being  incompatible 
with  the  customs  of  war,  could  not  be  granted ;  and  it  was  there- 
fore determined,  in  both  cases,  to  evade  an  answer,  to  spare  him 
the  sensations  which  a  certain  knowledge  of  the  intended  mode 
would  inflict. 

In  going  to  the  place  of  execution  he  bowed  familiarly,  as  he  went 
along,  to  all  those  with  whom  he  had  been  acquainted  in  his  con- 
finement. A  smile  of  complacency  expressed  the  serene  fortitude 
of  his  mind.  Arrived  at  tl>e  fatal  spot,  he  asked,  with  some  emo- 
tion, "  Must  I  then  die  in  this  manner  ?  "  He  was  told  it  had  been 
unavoidable.  "  I  am  reconciled  to  my  fate,"  said  he,  "  but  not  to 
the  mode."  Soon,  however,  recollecting  himself,  he  added,  "  It 
will  be  but  a  momentary  pang  ;  "  and,  springing  upon  the  cart,  per- 
formed the  last  offices  to  himself  with  a  composure  that  excited  the 
admiration  and  melted  the  hearts  of  the  beholders.  Upon  being 
told  the  final  moment  was  at  hand,  and  asked  if  he  had  anything  to 
say,  he  answered,  "  Nothing,  but  to  request  you  will  witness  to  the 
world  that  I  die  like  a  brave  man."  Among  the  extraordinary  cir- 
cumstances that  attended  him,  in  the  midst  of  his  enemies,  he  died 
universally  regretted  and  universally  esteemed. 

There  was  something  singularly  interesting  in  the  character  and 
fortunes  of  Andre.  To  an  excellent  understanding,  well  improved 
by  education  and  travel,  he  united  a  peculiar  elegance  of  mind  and 
manners,  and  the  advantage  of  a  pleasing  person.  It  is  said  he 
possessed  a  pretty  taste  for  the  fine  arts,  and  had  himself  attained 
some  proficiency  in  poetry,  music,  and  painting.  His  knowledge 
appeared  without  ostentation,  and  embellished  by  a  diffidence  that 
rarely  accompanies  so  many  talents  and  accomplishments,  which 
left  you  to  suppose  more  than  appeared. 

His  sentiments  were  elevated,  and  inspired  esteem  ;  they  had  a 
softness  that  conciliated  affection.  His  elocution  was  handsome, 
his  address  easy,  polite,  and  insinuating.  By  his  merit  he  had 
acquired  the  unlimited  confidence  of  his  general,  and  was  making  a 
rapid  progress  in  military  rank  and  reputation.-  But  in  the  height 
of  his  career,  flushed  with  new  hopes  from  the  execution  of  a  project 
the  most  beneficial  to  his  party  that  could  be  devised,  he  was  at 


32  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

once  precipitated  from  the  summit  of  prosperity,  and  saw  all  the  ex- 
pectations of  his  ambition  blasted,  and  himself  ruined. 

The  character  I  have  given  of  him  is  drawn  partly  from  what  I 
saw  of  him  myself,  and  partly  from  information.  I  am  aware  that  a 
man  of  real  merit  is  never  seen  in  so  favorable  a  light  as  through 
the  medium  of  adversity.  The  clouds  that  surround  him  are  shades 
that  set  off  his  good  qualities.  Misfortune  cuts  down  the  little  van- 
ities that  in  prosperous  times  serve  as  so  many  spots  in  his  virtues, 
and  gives  a  tone  of  humility  that  makes  his  worth  more  amiable. 
His  spectators,  who  enjoy  a  happier  lot,  are  less  prone  to  detract 
from  it  through  envy,  and  are  more  disposed  by  compassion  to  give 
him  the  credit  he  deserves,  and  perhaps  even  to  magnify  it. 

I  speak  not  of  Andre's  conduct  in  this  affair  as  a  philosopher,  but 
as  a  man  of  the  world.  The  authorized  maxims  and  practices  of  war 
are  the  satires  of  human  nature.  They  countenance  almost  every 
species  of  seduction  as  well  as  violence  ;  and  the  general  who  can 
make  most  traitors  in  the  army  of  his  adversary  is  frequently  most 
applauded.  On  this  scale  we  acquit  Andre',  while  we  would  not  but 
condemn  him  if  we  were  to  examine  his  conduct  by  the  sober  rules 
of  philosophy  and  moral  rectitude.  It  is,  however,  a  blemish  on  his 
fame  that  he  once  intended  to  prostitute  a  flag,  —  about  this  a  man 
of  nice  honor  ought  to  have  had  a  scruple,  —  but  the  temptation 
was  great.  Let  his  misfortunes  cast  a  veil  over  his  error. 

Several  letters  from  Sir  Henry  Clinton  and  others  were  received 
in  the  course  of  the  affair,  feebly  attempting  to  prove  that  Andre 
came  out  under  the  protection  of  a  flag,  with  a  passport  from  a  gen- 
eral officer  in  actual  service,  and  consequently  could  not  be  justly 
detained.  Clinton  sent  a  deputation,  composed  of  Lieutenant  Gen- 
eral Robinson,  Mr.  Elliot,  and  Mr.  William  Smith,  to  represent,  as 
he  said,  the  true  state  of  Major  Andre's  case.  General  Greene  met 
Robinson,  and  had  a  conversation  with  him,  in  which  he  reiterated 
the  pretence  of  a  flag,  urged  Andre's  release  as  a  personal  favor  to 
Sir  Henry  Clinton,  and  offered  any  friend  of  ours  in  their  power  in 
exchange.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  frivolous  than  the  plea 
which  was  used.  The  fact  was,  that  besides  the  time,  manner, 
object  of  the  interview,  change  of  dress,  and  other  circumstances, 
there  was  not  a  single  formality  customary  with  flags,  and  the  pass- 
port was  not  to  Major  Andre,  but  to  Mr.  Anderson.  But  had  there 
been,  on  the  contrary,  all  the  formalities,  it  would  be  an  abuse  of  lan- 
guage to  say  that  the  sanction  of  a  flag,  for  corrupting  an  officer  to 
betray  his  trust,  ought  to  be  respected.  So  unjustifiable  a  purpose 
would  not  only  destroy  its  validity,  but  make  it  an  aggravation. 


ALEXANDER   HAMILTON.  33 

Andre  himself  had  answered  the  argument  by  ridiculing  and  ex- 
ploding the  idea  in  his  examination  before  the  board  of  officers.  It 
was  a  weakness  to  urge  it. 

There  was,  in  truth,  no  way  of  saving  him.  Arnold  or  he  must 
have  been  the  victim ;  the  former  was  out  of  our  power. 

It  was  by  some  suspected  Arnold  had  taken  his  measures  in  such 
a  manner  that,  if  the  interview  had  been  discovered  in  the  act,  it 
might  have  been  in  his  power  to  sacrifice  Andre  to  his  own  security. 
This  surmise  of  double  treachery  made  them  imagine  Clinton  would 
be  induced  to  give  up  Arnold  for  Andre,  and  a  gentleman  took  occa- 
sion to  suggest  the  expedient  to  the  latter  as  a  thing  that  might  be 
proposed  by  him.  He  declined  it.  The  moment  he  had  been  capa- 
ble of  so  much  frailty,  I  should  have  ceased  to  esteem  him. 

The  infamy  of  Arnold's  conduct,  previous  to  his  desertion,  is  only 
equalled  by  his  baseness  since.  Besides  the  folly  of  writing  to  Sir 
Henry  Clinton  that  Andre  had  acted  under  a  passport  from  him,  and 
according  to  his  directions  while  commanding  officer  at  a  post,  and 
that  therefore  he  did  not  doubt  he  would  be  immediately  sent  in,  he 
had  the  effrontery  to  write  to  General  Washington  in  the  same  spirit, 
with  the  addition  of  a  menace  of  retaliation  if  the  sentence  should 
be  carried  into  execution. "  He  Jias  since  acted  the  farce  of  sending 
in  his  resignation.  This  man  is,  in  every  sense,  despicable.  In 
addition  to  the  scene  of  knavery  and  prostitution  during  his  com- 
mand in  Philadelphia,  which  the  late  seizure  of  his  papers  has  un- 
folded, the  history  of -his  command  at  West  Point  is  a  history  of 
little  as  well  as  great  villanies.  He  practised  every  art  of  pecula- 
tion, and  even  stooped  to  connection  with  the  sutlers  of  the  garrison 
to  defraud  the  public. 

To  his  conduct  that  of  the  captors  of  Andre  formed  a  striking 
contrast.  He  tempted  them  with  the  offer  of  his  watch,  his  horse, 
and  any  sum  of  money  they  should  name.  They  rejected  his  offers 
with  indignation,  and  the  gold  that  could  seduce  a  man  high  in  the 
esteem  and  confidence  of  his  country,  who  had  the  remembrance  of 
past  exploits,  the  motives  of  present  reputation  and  future  glory  to 
prop  his  integrity,  had  no  charms  for  three  simple  peasants,  leaning 
only  on  their  virtue  and  an  honest  sense  of  their  duty.  While  Ar- 
nold is  handed  down  with  execration  to  future  times,  posterity  will 
repeat  with  reverence  the  names  of  Van  Wart,  Paulding,  and  Wil- 
liams. 

3 


34  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


FISHER   AMES. 

Fisher  Ames  was  born  in  Dedham,  Massachusetts,  April  9,  1758,  and  died  in  his  native 
place  July  4,  1808.  He  was  a  precocious  youth,  and  was  sent  to  Harvard  College  at  the  age 
of  twelve.  After  graduation  he  spent  a  few  years  in  teaching,  and  then  entered  upon  the 
study  of  law  in  Boston.  He  commenced  practice  at  Dedham  in  1781.  He  was  early 
prominent  in  his  profession,  and  was  equally  distinguished  as  a  political  speaker  and 
essayist.  He  was  the  first  member  of  Congress  from  his  district  which  included  Boston, 
and  he  continued  to  represent  it  for  eight  years.  During  his  whole  career  he  was  an 
ardent  Federalist  — a  fact  which  the  reader  is  rarely  allowed  to  forget  in  any  speech,  essay, 
or  letter. 

Mr.  Ames  possessed  uncommon  vigor  of  mind ;  his  memory  was  stored  with  literary 
treasures  :  his  fancy  was  active,  furnishing  illustrative  images  that  were  as  much  to  the  pur- 
pose as  his  logic.  And  such  was  the  effect  of  his  oratory,  even  upon  deliberative  bodies, 
that  on  one  occasion  Congress  adjourned  on  motion  of  Ames's  chief  opponent  in  debate,  for 
the  alleged  reason  that  the  members  ought  not  to  be  called  upon  to  vote  while  under  the 
spell  of  his  extraordinary  eloquence.  The  speeches  of  Mr.  Ames  that  have  been  preserved 
fully  sustain  his  great  reputation,  being  vigorous  and  logical  in  statement,  and  adorned 
with  the  graces  of  a  lively  and  learned  style.  His  letters,  also,  are  fresh  and  charming. 
When  we  remember  how  much  was  done  to  influence  public  opinion  by  the  private  cor- 
respondence of  leading  men  in  the  last  generation,  we  must  lament  the  decay  of  letter- 
writing  as  a  fine  art. 

Mr.  Ames  was  a  man  of  amiable  temper  and  irreproachable  character ;  and  though  he 
was  idolized  by  the  public,  it  was  only  in  the  light  of  his  home  that  he  was  fully  known  as 
he  was —  one  of  the  wisest,  wittiest,  as  well  as  most  tender  and  constant  of  men. 

His  life  was  written  by  President  Kirkland,  fit  Harvard  College,  and  his  works  have 
been  edited  by  his  son,  Hon.  Seth  Ames,  justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Massachusetts. 
(2  vols.,  8vo.) 

[Letter  to  Josiah  Quincy.l 

POSTAL   FACILITIES.     • 

February  i,  1806. 

MY  DEAR  SIR  :  Messrs.  Trask  and  Wheelock,  two  knights  of  the 
currycomb,  in  Bromfield  Lane,  and  proprietors  of  the  stage  through 
Dedham  to  Hartford,  from  a  sheer  love  to  the  public,  are  willing  to 
use  and  abuse  their  horses  to  expedite  the  mail  in  eighteen  hours  in 
summer,  provided  that  Congress  will  order  the  postmaster-general 
to  make  a  contract  with  them  to  carry  it  three  times  a  week.  Even 
love,  you  know,  grows  faint  if  unrequited.  Here  we  sit  in  darkness  ; 
and  instead  of  having  the  light  of  the  newspapers  —  the  only  light  men 
can  see  to  think  by,  shed  dingy  and  streaked  every  morning,  like 
Aurora  —  we  often  have  to  wait,  as  they  do  in  Greenland,  for  the 
weather  and  the  northern  lights.  The  town  stage  is  often  stopped 
by  rain  or  snow ;  the  driver  forgets  to  bring  the  newspapers,  or 
loses  them  out  of  his  box.  This  is  our  bad  condition  here.  How 
much  worse  it  is  ten  miles  farther  from  Boston,  you  may  conceive. 
The  darkness  might  be  felt.  Now,  as  the  government  alone  pos- 


FISHER   AMES.  35 

sesses  information,  and  as  the  stage  horses  alone  are  the  pipes  for 
its  transmission  to  the  printers,  who  are  the  issuing  commissaries  to 
the  people,  we,  the  people,  the  rank-and-file  men,  ask  our  officers, 
through  Trask  and  Wheelock,  to  provide  for  our  accommodation. 
Let  us  have  food  for  the  mind  every  other  day. 

The  middle  road  is  the  nearest  by  twenty  or  twenty-five  miles  ; 
besides,  Mr.  Dowse  lives  upon  it,  and  as  it  is  now  all  turnpike,  in 
fact  or  on  paper,  and  as  fifty  miles  of  it  through  Connecticut,  without 
granting  the  petition,  might  not  in  any  season,  if  at  all,  get  knowl- 
edge of  Mr.  Wright's  bill,  and  his  bounty  for  shooting  Englishmen, 
the  public  reasons  are  the  strongest  imaginable  for  ordering  the 
postmaster-general  to  make  such  a  contract.  It  would  not  cost 
much  ;  and  as  the  increase  of  mails  increases  letter- writing,  who  will 
say  that  ultimately  it  will  cost  anything?  The  only  sensible 
economy  in  farming  is  to  spend  money ;  it  may  be  so  in  govern- 
ment matters. 

To  be  serious,  there  can  be  no  doubt  the  public  good  requires  the 
arrangement  in  question,  as  Sam  Brown,  George  Blake,  and  Dr. 
Eustis  subscribe  the  petition.  The  Worcester  road  may  seem  to  be 
attacked,  by  the  conferring  the  high  prerogative  of  a  mail  three 
times  a  week  on  a  parallel  road  ;  and  Granger's  bowels  may  yearn 
for  his  imperial  city  of  feathers  and  wooden  trays,  which  is  situated 
on  the  route  through  Springfield.  Pray  do  what  you  can  for  these 
folks,  and  get  others  to  help  you.  Even  Mr.  Randolph  ought  to 
promote  these  views,  as  it  will,  no  doubt,  increase  the  number  of  the 
readers  of  his  speeches. 

Yours,  truly,  &c. 


[From  a  Letter  to  Timothy  Pickering.! 
FRENCH   CONQUEST  OF  EUROPE. 


February  14,  1806. 


LATE  events,  I  confess,  lessen  my  confidence  in  the  military  capa- 
city of  resistance  of  all  the  foes  of  France,  England  not  excepted. 
A  fate  seems  to  sweep  the  prostrate  world  along  that  is  not  to  be 
averted  by  submission,  nor  retarded  by  arms.  The  British  navy 
stands  like  Briareus,  parrying  the  thunderbolts,  but  can  hurl  none 
back  again  ;  and  if  Bonaparte  effects  his  conquest  of  the  dry  land, 
the  empire  of  the  sea  must  in  the  end  belong  to  him.  That  he  will 
reign  supreme  and  alone  on  the  continent  is  to  be  disputed  by 


36        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

nobody  but  Russia ;  and  if  pride,  poverty,  distance,  false  ambition, 
or  fools  in  his  cabinet  persuade  the  Emperor  Alexander  to  make  a 
separate  peace,  France  must  be  Rome,  and  Russia  Parthia,  invinci- 
ble and  insignificant.  The  second  Punic  war  must  terminate  in  that 
case,  for  aught  I  can  see,  in  the  ruin  of  England  ;  and  the  world 
must  bow  its  base  neck  to  the  yoke.  It  will  sweat  in  servitude  and 
grope  in  darkness  perhaps  another  thousand  years  ;  for  the  emula- 
tion of  the  European  states,  extinguished  by  the  establishment  of 
one  empire,  will  no  longer  sustain  the  arts.  They  and  the  sciences 
will  soon  become  the  corrupters  of  society.  It  is  already  doubtful 
whether  the  press  is  not  their  enemy. 

I  make  no  doubt  Bonaparte  will  offer  almost  carte  blanche  to 
Russia  and  Austria,  saving  only  his  rights  as  master ;  and  I  greatly 
fear  that  Russia  will  be  lured,  as  Austria  will  be  forced,  to  abandon 
Great  Britain.  Another  peace  makes  Bonaparte  master  of  Europe. 

Russia  has  soldiers,  and  they  are  brave  enough ;  and  I  should 
think  so  vast  an  augmentation  of  the  French  empire  would  seem  to 
Alexander  to  demand  the  exertion  of  all  his  vast  energies.  Without 
Pitt's  gold  this  will  be  a  slow  and  inadequate  exertion ;  and  how 
Pitt  is  to  get  money,  if  neutrals  take  this  generous  opportunity  to 
quarrel  with  him,  I  cannot  see.  .  .  . 

It  has  never  happened,  I  believe,  for  any  great  length  of  time, 
that  our  American  politics  have  been  much  governed  either  by  our 
policy  or  blunders.  Events  abroad  have  imposed  both  their  char- 
acter and  result ;  and  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  that  this  is  to  be  the 
case  more  than  ever.  If  France  dictates  by  land  and  sea,  we  fall 
without  an  effort  The  wind  of  the  cannon-ball  that  smashes  John 
Bull's  brains  out  will  lay  us  on  our  backs',  with  all  our  tinsel  honors 
in  the  dirt.  Therefore  I  think  I  may,  and  feel  that  I  must,  return 
to  European  affairs. 

Two  obstacles,  and  only  two,  impede  the  establishment  of  univer- 
sal monarchy — Russia  and  the  British  navy.  The  military  means 
of  the  former  are  vast,  her  troops  numerous  and  brave.  Of  money 
she  has  little,  but  a  little  goes  a  great  way,  for  everything  is  cheap. 
This  is  owing  to  the  barbarism  of  her  inhabitants.  Now,  for 
revenue  a  highly-civilized  state  is  most  favorable  ;  but  for  arms,  I 
beg  leave  to  doubt  whether  men  half  savage  are  not  best.  Not 
because  rude  nations  have  more  courage  than  those  that  are  polished, 
but  because  they  have  not  such  an  invincible  aversion  to  a  military 
life  as  the  sons  of  luxury  and  pleasure,  and  the  sons  of  labor  too,  in 
the  latter.  As  society  refines,  greater  freedom  of  the  choice  of  life 


FISHER  AMES.  37 

is  progressively  allowed ;  and  the  endless  variety  of  employments 
and  arts  of  life  attaches  men,  and  almost  all  men,  to  the  occupa- 
tions of  peace.  To  bring  soldiers  into  the  field,  the  prince  must 
overbid  the  allurements  of  these  occupations.  He  exhausts  his 
treasury  without  filling  his  camp. 

But  in  Russia  men  are  yet  cheap,  as  well  as  provisions.  Little  is 
left  to  the  peasantry  to  choose,  whether  they  will  stand  in  the  ranks 
or  at  a  work-bench  ;  and  though  the  emperor  may  not  incline  absolute- 
ly to  force  men  into  the  army,  a  sum  of  money,  that  John  Bull  would 
disdain  to  accept,  would  allure  them  in  crowds. 

I  amuse  myself  with  inquiring  into  the  existence  of  physical 
means  to  resist  France.  I  seem  to  forget,  though  in  truth  I  do  not 
forget,  that  means  twice  as  great  once  existed  in  the  hands  of  the 
fallen  nations.  They  were  divided  in  counsel,  and  taken  unprepared. 
Russia,  being  a  single  power,  and  untainted  with  revolution  mania, 
and  plainly  seeing  her  danger,  ought  to  do  more  than  all  the  rest.  Yet, 
after  all,  I  well  know  that  if  small  minds  preside  on  great  occasions, 
they  are  sure  to  temporize  when  the  worst  of  all  things  is  to  do 
nothing ;  and  very  possibly  the  Russian  cabinet  sages  partake  of 
this  fatal  blockheadship. 

It  also  seems  to  me  that  the  science,  or  at  least  the  practice,  of 
war  has  greatly  changed  since  Marlborough's  days.  In  1702  to 
1709,  or  1710,  he  fought  a  great  battle  on  a  plain  of  six  miles'  extent. 
On  gaining  the  victory,  he  besieged  a  fortress  as  big  as  an  Indian 
trading  post,  mined,  scaled,  battered,  and  fought  six  weeks  to  take 
it,  and  then  went  into  winter  quarters.  Thus  the  war  went  on, 
campaign  after  campaign,  as  slowly  as  the  Middlesex  Canal,  which  in 
eight  years  has  been  dug  thirty  miles. 

The  French  have  done  with  sieges  and  field  battles.  Posts  are 
occupied  along  the  whole  frontier  line  of  a  country.  If  the  line  of 
defence  be  less  extensive,  they  pass  round  it ;  if  weakened  by  extent, 
through  it.  An  immense  artillery,  light,  yet  powerful,  rains  such  a 
horrible  tempest  on  any  part  that  is  to  be  forced,  that  the  defenders 
are  driven  back  before  the  charge  of  the  bayonet  is  resorted  to. 
The  lines  once  forced,  the  defending  army  falls  back,  takes  new 
positions,  and  again  loses  them,  as  before.  Thus  a  country  is  taken 
possession  of  without  a  battle,  and  a  brave  people  wonder  and  blush 
to  find  they  are  slaves.  .  .  . 

I  have  never  believed  the  volunteers  of  England  worth  a  day's 
rations  of  beef  to  the  island,  if  invaded.  With  you,  I  have  assumed 
it,  as  a  thing  absolutely  certain,  that  they  would  be  beaten  and 


38        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

dispersed  by  one  hundred  thousand  invading  Frenchmen.  Improved 
as  the  military  art  now  is,  and,  as  I  have  supposed,  far  beyond  what 
it  was  in  the  Duke  of  Marlborough's  days,  it  is  folly  at  all  times,  and 
infatuation  in  time  of  danger,  to  consider  militia  as  capable  of  de- 
fending a  country.  My  hope  has  been  that  England  would  array 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  regulars,  and  perfect  their  discipline 
without  delay.  Without  a  great  land  force,  I  now  think,  with  you, 
she  is  in  extreme  danger. 

After  her  fall,  ours  would  not  cost  Bonaparte  a  blow.  We  are 
prostrate  already,  and  of  all  men  on  earth  the  fittest  to  be  slaves. 
Even  our  darling  avarice  would  not  make  a  week's  resistance  to 
tribute,  if  the  name  were  disguised  ;  and  I  much  doubt  whether,  if 
France  were  lord  of  the  navies  of  Europe,  we  should  reluct  at  that, 
or  even  at  the  appellation  and  condition  of  Helot. 


[Letter  to  Josiah  Quincy.] 

f  Februarys,  18°7- 

MY  DEAR  SIR  :  As  soon  as  I  learned  where  your  salt  speech 
could  be  found  in  print  with  any  correctness,  I  took  measures  to  get 
it  republished.  It  is  in  the  Repertory  of  this  day,  and  is —  I  say  it 
without  compliment  —  an  ornament  to  its  columns.  I  am  as  well 
satisfied  with  what  you  do  not  say,  but  only  hint,  as  if  you  had  said 
it  in  form.  Your  argument  is  sound,  and  the  subject  is  presented  in 
the  right  point  of  view.  No  man  seldomer  says  flattering  things  to 
his  friends  than  I  do  ;  and  if  I  had  waited  a  week  after  reading  your 
speech,  I  should  have  been  more  stingy  of  praise. '  Having  just  read 
it,  I  cannot  wholly  suppress  my  warmth  of  approbation.  Let  me 
repeat  that  you  should  not  be  too  modest  about  getting  your  speeches 
into  print  correctly.  It  is  the  public  that  is  argued  with  ;  that  pub- 
lic that  always  pronounces  its  judgment  and  seldom  condescends  to 
give  its  attention  ;  that  is  almost  always  wrong  in  the  hour  of  delibera- 
tion, and  right  in  the  day  of  repentance.  Federalism  is  allowed  to 
have  little  to  do  with  deliberation  ;  and  I  am  far  from  certain  that 
popular  repentance  is  often  accompanied  with  saving  grace.  We 
are  not  so  truly  sorry  for  the  sin,  as  for  its  bad  success.  To  get 
people  to  think  right,  therefore,  either  first  or  last,  is  not  the  most 
hopeful  undertaking  in  the  world.  But  Federal  good  sense  is  never 
to  guide  measures.  Archimedes  might  calculate  the  force  of  the 
wind,  but  could  not  prevent  its  blowing.  Now,  though  argument 
will  never  turn  the  weathercock,  it  may  prove  how  it  points.  That 
power  which  your  adversary  can  use  in  spite  of  you  is  checked  by 


JOHN    QUINCY    ADAMS.  39 

your  efforts.  If  he  exerts  all  his  force,  and  you  all  yours,  his  force 
is  reduced  to  the  degree  in  which  he  surpasses  you,  and  in  that 
degree  you  may  not  be  liable  to  very  serious  injury.  Federalism  is 
not  a  sword  nor  a  gun ;  it  is  not  wings,  but  a  parachute.  In  this 
sense  the  good  men  in  Congress  should  be  on  the  alert. 

I  feel  assured  that  we  are  to  be  subjugated  by  Bonaparte  ;  and  I 
have  a  curiosity  to  know  how  Randolph  and  the  knowing  ones  can 
sit  as  easy  as  the  fools  do,  and  see  him  hastening  to  snatch  from 
their  hands  the  power  they  are  so  ready  to  contend  among  them- 
selves about.  I  saw,  in  the  Repertory  of  last  week,  a  long  piece,  of 
five  or  six  columns,  on  the  causes  of  the  French  military  superiority, 
and  on  the  facility  of  their  conquest  of  the  United  States,  unless  we 
prepare  on  a  great  scale.  Whether  such  discussions  produce  any 
effect  I  know  not;  but  if  they  do  not  produce  any,  it  must  be 
because  our  noisy  liberty  men  are  eager  for  power,  and  perfectly 
indifferent  about  the  fall  of  the  country  from  its  boasted  indepen- 
dence. J.  R.'s  boast  that  he  never  reads  the  newspapers  is  a  shrewd 
sign  that  he  studies  them.  I  hope  his  real  politics  are  better  than 
Varnum's,  whose  ignorance  blinds  him,  or  than  Jefferson's,  whose 
fears  make  him  a  slave.  But  if  J.  R.  was  disposed  ever  so  heartily 
to  urge  preparations,  he  could  not  prevail  to  have  any  made.  The 
force  of  primary  popular  notions  would  control  Lord  Chatham,  if  he 
was  our  premier.  I  often  dare  to  think  our  nation  began  self- 
government  without  education  for  it.  Like  negroes,  freed  after 
having  grown  up  to  man's  estate,  we  are  incapable  of  learning  and 
practising  the  great  art  of  taking  care  of  ourselves.  We  must  be 
put  to  school  again,  I  fear,  and  whipped  into  wisdom. 


JOHN    QUINCY   ADAMS. 

John  Quincy  Adams,  son  of  President  John  Adams,  was  born  in  Braintree,  July  n,  1767. 
He  accompanied  his  father  to  Europe  in  his  eleventh  year,  and  thenceforward  enjoyed  such 
opportunities  for  education  and  travel  as  have  fallen  to  the  lot  of  but  few  American  youth. 
He  entered  the  junior  class  in  Harvard  College  in  1786,  and  upon  his  graduation  studied 
law  with  Chief  Justice  Parsons.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1791,  but  in  1794  he  left 
the  profession  to  begin  a  public  career.  His'  services  as  diplomatist,  senator,  cabinet  min- 
ister, president,  and  afterwards  representative  in  Congress,  can  only  be  alluded  to.  since 
few  lives  have  been  so  marked  by  striking  incidents,  or  so  affected  by  the  vicissitudes  of 
fortune  and  the  fickleness  of  popular  favor.  He  died  in  Washington,  at  the  Capitol,  Feb- 
ruary 23,  1848.  He  was  en  industrious  writer,  and  throughout  his  life  kept  a  diary,  from 
which,  it  is  understood,  r.mple  selections  are  to  be  published  by  his  grandson.  His  lectures 
on  rhetoric,  delivered  while  he  was  professor  at  Harvard  College,  had  only  a  temporary 
success,  lacugh  far  more  learned  and  accomplished  than  his  father,  he  was  inferior  to 


4O        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

him  in  native  force  and  wit,  as  well  as  the  simplicity  and  directness  of  his  style.  His  repu- 
tation will  rest  mainly  upon  his  speeches  and  state  papers,  and  these  are  of  more  interest  to 
students  of  political  history  than  to  lovers  of  letters.  In  his  proper  sphere  his  abilities  were 
of  a  very  high  order,  if  not  the  highest.  Had  he  possessed  more  imagination,  a  more  re- 
fined taste,  and  more  literary  skill,  he  would  probably  have  remained  a  professor,  and  the 
nation  would  have  lost  the  services  of  one  of  its  most  able,  courageous,  and  high-toned  pub- 
lic men. 

The  selections  here  given  are  from  a  report  made  in  the  House  of  Representatives  in 
1833,  which  embodies  the  doctrines  of  the  Whig  party  upon  internal  improvements,  the 
tariff,  and  other  questions  then  in  controversy.  It  is  probably  the  ablest  statement  of 
the  view  of  public  affairs  taken  by  the  Whig  politicians  of  that  day. 

[From  Mr.  Adams's  Report  on  Manufactures.] 

IN  descending  from  the  general  axiom,  that  in  all  countries  the 
independent  farmers,  or  wealthy  landholders,  cultivators  of  the  soil, 
constitute  the  best  part  of  the  population,  to  the  measures  of  legisla- 
tion recommended  to  Congress  for  carrying  out  this  principle  in  the 
administration  of  the  government,  four  features  are  discernible  as 
especially  characteristic  of  the  Message  [of  President  Jackson]. 
First,  the  abandonment,  for  the  future,  of  all  appropriations  of  pub- 
lic moneys  to  purposes  of  internal  improvement ;  second,  the  prac- 
tically total  dereliction  of  all  protection  to  domestic  industry,  whether 
agricultural,  manufacturing,  or  mechanical ;  third,  the  nullification 
of  all  future  revenue  from  the  public  domains,  by  the  bestowal  of 
them  in  free  donation  to  voluntary  settlers  upon  them,  from  the 
privileged  class  of  citizens,  cultivators  of  the  soil,  to  swell  the  num- 
bers of  the  best  part  of  the  population  at  the  expense  of  all  the  rest, 
or  to  the  favored  states  in  which  this  common  property  happens  to 
be  situated;  fourth,  the  denunciation  of  the  Bank'of  the  United 
States,  depreciating  the  value  of  the  stock  held  in  it  by  the  nation, 
distressing  the  commercial  community  with  suspicions  of  the  solidity 
of  its  funds,  and  stimulating  the  profligacy  of  fraudulent  gambling 
in  its  stock.  In  every  one  of  these  four  particulars  the  recommen- 
dations of  the  Message  are  in  diametrical  opposition  to  the  well- 
established,  deliberately-adopted,  and  long-tried  policy  by  which  the 
Union  has  hitherto  been  governed,  under  the  present  Constitution 
of  the  United  States  —  in  diametrical  opposition  to  the  purposes  for 
which  it  was  formed  —  to  the  principles  upon  which  it  has  been 
administered,  and,  with  the  most  painful  but  most  undoubting  con- 
viction, the  subscribers  must  add,  to  the  solemn  compacts  and  inde- 
feasible obligations  by  which  the  nation  is  bound. 

Although  the  plan  of  government  marked  out  and  delineated  in 
the  Message  forms  a  whole  system  sufficiently  consistent  with  itself, 
and  all  derivable  from  the  fundamental  position  that  the  wealthy 


JOHN    QUINCY   ADAMS.  41 

landholders  constitute  the  best  part  of  the  population,  yet  it  is  ob- 
servable that  in  every  instance  the  subordinate  principle  advanced 
as  the  groundwork  of  each  separate  recommendation,  is,  by  the  terms 
of  the  Message,  so  qualified  in  the  theory  as  scarcely,  if  at  all,  to  dif- 
fer from  the  views  and  opinions  entertained  by  the  friends  of  the 
interest  which  the  recommendation  itself  is  adopted  to  destroy. 
Thus,  for  example,  in  the  recommendation  to  abandon  all  future 
appropriations  of  the  public  moneys  for  purposes  of  internal  im- 
provement, the  only  principle  avowed  is  "  that  the  Constitution  does 
not  warrant  the  application  of  the  funds  of  the  general  government 
to  objects  of  internal  improvement,  which  are  not  national  in  their 
character"  From  this  position  the  most  ardent  and  most  liberal 
friend  of  internal  improvement  will  not  dissent.  No  appropriation- 
ever  has  been  asked  ;  there  is  not  the  shadow  of  a  danger  that  any 
appropriations  of  funds  ever  will  be  asked,  but  for  objects  alleged 
to  be  of  a  national  character ;  and  of  their  legitimate  title  to  that 
character,  the  representatives  of  the  whole  people,  and  of  all 
the  state  legislatures  in  Congress  assembled,  under  the  control 
of  a  qualified  negative  by  the  chief  magistrate  of  the  Union, 
all  acting  under  a  constant  responsibility  to  their  constituents,  are 
qualified  and  competent  judges.  That  there  will  be,  as  there  have 
been,  diversities  of  opinion,  whether  any  specified  object  of  internal 
improvement  is  or  is  not  of  a  national  character,  may  be  freely 
admitted  ;  and  that  in  all  cases  where  it  may  be  reasonably  doubted, 
the  wise  and  prudent  policy  of  the  constituted  authorities  will  induce 
them  rather  to  withhold  than  grant  the  appropriation,  is  a  conclusion 
deducible  not  less  from  the  experience  of  the  past  than  from  the  con- 
fidence due  to  the  moral  character  of  the  delegated  representatives 
of  the  nation.  That  in  the  great  majority  of  applications  for  appro- 
priations in  aid  of  internal  improvements,  which  have  been  made  to 
Congress,  the  objects  for  which  they  were  solicited  have  been  of  a 
national  character,  could  not  be,  and  was  not,  doubted.  Of  the  ap- 
propriations made,  the  subscribers  confidently  affirm  that  none  can  be 
pointed  out  which  are  not  unquestionably  of  that  character.  If 
there  has  been  error  in  the  administration  of  the  government,  in  the 
application  or  appropriations  to  these  objects,  it  has  been  an  error 
of  parsimony,  and  not  of  profusion  ;  a  refusal  of  the  public  money 
where  it  ought  to  have  been  granted,  and  not  a  bestowal  where  it 
ought  to  have  been  denied.  In  the  sober  and  honest  discretion  of 
the  legislature,  under  the  vigilant  supervision  of  the  executive  chief, 
a  guard,  amply  sufficient  for  the  protection  of  the  public  resources 


42  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

against  wasteful  or  improvident  expenditures,  has  been  provided  by 
the  Constitution.  .  .  . 

It  is,  then,  with  sentiments  of  deep  mortification  and  of  unqualified 
dissent,  that  the  subscribers  have  observed  the  earnest  recommen- 
dations to  Congress,  in  the  Message,  to  abandon  the  whole  system 
of  appropriations  for  internal  improvements  which  has  hitherto  been 
pursued  ;  which  was  in  the  full  tide  of  successful  experiment,  and 
which,  for  a  long  series  of  years,  has  been  contributing  to  increase 
the  comforts,  to  multiply  the  enjoyments,  and  to  consolidate  the 
strength  and  happiness  of  the  American  people.  To  abandon  them 
all,  for  in  no  other  light  can  they  consider  the  extraordinary  though 
vague  and  indefinite  commendations  of  simplicity  as  the  suitable 
characteristic  for  the  government  of  a  nation  of  swarming  millions 
of  human  beings  ;  the  intensely  urgent  exhortations  to  Congress  to 
refrain  from  the  exercise  of  all  beneficent  powers,  which  one  twen- 
tieth part  of  the  people  may  carp  and  cavil  at  as  doubtful  —  the 
incomprehensible  argument  that  harmony  and  union  are  to  be  pro- 
moted by  stifling  the  firm  and  manly  voice  of  nineteen  twentieths 
of  our  constituents,  to  satisfy  the  brainsick  doubts  or  appease  the 
menacing  clamors  of  less  than  one  twentieth  ;  and,  finally,  the  direct 
recommendation  to  Congress  to  dispose  of  all  stocks  now  held  by 
the  general  government  in  corporations,  whether  created  by  the 
general  or  state  governments,  and  to  place  the  proceeds  in  the 
treasury. 

In  these  recommendations,  and  in  the  spirit  with  which  they  are 
pressed  upon  the  consideration  of  Congress,  the  subscribers  can 
discern  nothing  less  than  a  proposed  revolution  of  government  in 
this  Union  —  a  revolution  the  avowed  purpose  of  which  is  to  reduce 
the  general  government  to  a  simple  machine.  A  simple  machine  ? 
The  universe  in  which  we  daily  revolve,  and  which  seems  to  our 
vision  daily  to  revolve  round  us,  is  a  simple  machine  under  the  guid- 
ance of  an  omnipotent  hand.  The  president  of  the  United  States, 
one  of  the  functionaries  provided  by  the  Constitution  for  the  ordinary 
management  of  the  affairs  of  the  government,  but  not  intrusted  even 
with  the  power  of  action  upon  any  proposed  alteration  or  amend- 
ment to  the  Constitution,  undertakes  to  reduce  the  general  govern- 
ment to  a  simple  machine,  the  simplicity  of  which  shall  consist  of 
universal  beneficence  in  preserving  peace,  affording  a  uniform  cur- 
rency, maintaining  the  inviolability  of  contracts,  diffusing  intelli- 
gence, and  discharging,  unfelt,  its  other  (nameless,  unenumerated, 
and  undefined)  superintending  functions.  Truly,  this  simplicity  may 


JOHN    QUINCY    ADAMS.  43 

be  aptly  compared  with  that  of  the  government  of  the  universe  ;  need- 
ing only  an  omnipotent  hand  to  guide  and  regulate  its  movements, 
and  differing  from  it,  as  would  seem,  only  in  the  self-denial  of  all 
power  to  improve  the  condition  or  promote  the  general  welfare  of 
the  community,  by  and  for  whom  this  simple  machine  was  ordained. 
To  the  subscribers  it  appears  that  of  all  the  attributes  of  government 
among  men,  simplicity  is  the  last  that  deserves  commendation. 
The  simplest  of  all  governments  is  an  absolute  despotism,  and  it 
may  confidently  be  affirmed  that  in  proportion  as  a  government 
approaches  to  simplicity  will  always  be  its  approaches  to  arbitrary 
power.  It  is  by  the  complication  of  government  alone  that  the  free- 
dom of  mankind  can  be  secured ;  simplicity  is  the  essential  charac- 
teristic in  the  condition  of  all  slavery ;  and  if  the  people  of  these 
United  States  enjoy  a  greater  share  of  liberty  than  any  other  nation 
upon  earth,  it  is  because,  of  all  the  governments  upon  earth,  theirs 
is  the  most  complicated.  The  simplicity  to  which  the  recommenda- 
tions of  the  Message  would  reduce  the  machine  of  government  is  a 
simplicity  of  impotence,  an  abdication  of  the  power  to  do  good,  a 
divestment  of  all  power  in  this  confederated  people  to  improve  their 
own  condition.  .  .  . 

The  subscribers  believe  that  this  great  confederated  Union  is  a 
union  of  the  people,  a  union  of  states,  a  union  of  great  national 
interests  ;  a  union  of  all  classes,  conditions,  and  occupations  of 
men  ;  a  union  co-extensive  with  our  territorial  dominions  ;  a  union 
for  successive  ages,  without  limitation  of  time.  They  read  in  the 
preamble  to  the  Constitution,  that  it  was  ordained  and  established  by 
the  people  of  the  United  States,  among  other  great  and  noble  pur- 
poses, to  secure  the  blessings  of  liberty  to  themselves  and  their 
posterity.  As  sovereign  states  have  no  posterity,  they  are  incom- 
petent to  enter  into  any  such  compact.  The  people  of  the  United 
States,  in  ordaining  the  Constitution,  expressly  bound  to  its  obser- 
vance their  posterity  as  well  as  themselves.  Their  posterity  —  that 
is,  the  whole  people  of  the  United  States  —  are  the  only  power  on 
earth  competent  to  dissolve  peaceably  that  compact.  It  cannot 
otherwise  be  dissolved  but  by  force.  But  to  make  it  perpetual,  the 
first  and  transcendent  duty  of  all  who  at  any  time  are  called  to  par- 
ticipate in  the  councils  of  its  government,  is  to  harmonize,  and  not 
to  divide,  to  co-operate,  and  not  to  conflict. 


44  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


JOSIAH    QUINCY. 

Josiah  Quincy,  the  son  of  the  famous  orator  of  the  revolution,  Josiah  Quincy,  Jr.,  was 
born  in  Boston,  February  4,  1772.  He  was  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1790,  and 
commenced  the  study  of  law  with  Judge  Tudor;  but  he  was  soon  engaged  in  political 
affairs,  and  was,  during  the  whole  of  his  long  "life,  in  the  noblest  sense  a  public  man.  He 
was  a  member  of  Congress  from  1805  to  1813,  a  state  senator  from  1813  to  1821,  speaker  of 
the  Massachusetts  House  of  Representatives  in  1821,  judge  of  the  municipal  court  in  1822, 
second  mayor  of  Boston,  from  1823  to  1828,  and  president  of  Harvard  College  from  1829  to 
1845,  when  he  retired  from  office  and  from  active  pursuits  to  enjoy  his  deserved  repose. 
He  was  an  ardent  Federalist,  aggressive  and  uncompromising  in  temper,  spotless  in  per- 
sonal character,  and  possessing  the  rare  combination  of  brilliant  parts  and  varied  learning 
with  eminently  practical  abilities.  He  died  July  i,  1864,  leaving  a  reputation  for  integrity  and 
high-mmdedness  that  may  be  likened  to  the  fame  of  the  noblest  historic  Romans.  His  pub- 
lished works  are  a  Life  of  Josiah  Quincy,  Jr.,  The  History  of  Harvard  University,  The 
Journals  of  Major  Samuel  Shaw,  first  American  Consul  at  Canton,  with  a  Life  of  the  Author, 
History  of  the  Boston  Athenaeum,  The  Municipal  History  of  the  Town  and  City  of  Boston 
during  Two  Centuries,  The  Life  of  John  Quincy  Adams,  besides  numerous,  speeches  and 
addresses.  His  life,  written  by  his  son,  Edmund  Quincy,  has  been  published  in  one  vol., 
i2mo.  (Boston  :  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co  ). 

The  extracts  here  given  are  from  a  speech  delivered  in  Congress  upon  the  embargo  that 
preceded  the  last  war  with  Great  Britain. 

THE   EMBARGO. 

WHEN  I  enter  on  the  subject  of  the  embargo,  I  am  struck  with 
wonder  at  the  very  threshold.  I  know  not  with  what  words  to  ex- 
press my  astonishment.  At  the  time  I  departed  from  Massachu- 
setts, if  there  was  an  impression  which  I  thought  universal,  it  was 
that,  at  the  commencement  of  this  session,  an  end  would  be  put  to 
this  measure.  The  opinion  was  not  so  much  that  it  would  be  ter- 
minated as  that  it  was  then  at  an  end.  Sir,  the  prevailing  sentiment, 
according  to  my  apprehension,  was  stronger  than  this  —  even  that 
the  pressure  was  so  great  that  it  could  not  possibly  be  long  endured ; 
that  it  would  soon  be  absolutely  insupportable.  And  this  opinion, 
as  I  then  had  reason  to  believe,  was  not  confined  to  any  one  class, 
or  description,  or  party  :  even  those  who  were  friends  of  the  ex- 
isting administration,  and  unwilling  to  abandon  it,  were  yet  satisfied 
that  a  sufficient  trial  had  been  given  to  this  measure.  With  these 
impressions  I  arrive  in  this  city.  I  hear  the  incantations  of  the 
great  enchanter ;  I  feel  his  spell.  I  see  the  legislative  machinery 
begin  to  move.  The  scene  opens,  and  I  am  commanded  to  forget 
all  my  recollections,  to  disbelieve  the  evidence  of  my  senses,  to  con- 
tradict what  I  have  seen,  and  heard,  and  felt.  I  hear  that  all  this 
discontent  was  mere  party  clamor,  electioneering  artifice ;  that  the 
people  of  New  England  are  able  and  willing  to  endure  this  embargo 
for  an  indefinite,  unlimited  period,  —  some  say  for  six  months,  some 


JOSIAH    QUINCY.  45 

a  year,  some  two  years.  The  gentleman  from  North  Carolina  [Mr. 
Macon]  told  us  that  he  preferred  three  years  of  embargo  to  a  war. 
And  the  gentleman  from  Virginia  [Mr.  Clopton]  said  expressly  that 
he  hoped  we  should  never  allow  our  vessels  to  go  upon  the  ocean 
again  until  the  Orders  and  Decrees  of  the  belligerents  were  rescinded. 
In  plain  English,  until  France  and  Great  Britain  should,  in  their 
great  condescension,  permit.  Good  Heavens  !  Mr.  Chairman,  are 
men  mad  ?  Is  this  house  touched  with  that  insanity  which  is  the 
never-failing  precursor  of  the  intention  of  Heaven  to  destroy  ?  The 
people  of  New  England,  after  eleven  months'  deprivation  of  the 
ocean,  to  be  commanded  still  longer  to  abandon  it  for  an  undefined 
period,  —  to  hold  their  unalienable  rights  at  the  tenure  of  the  will 
of  Britain  or  of  Bonaparte  !  A  people  commercial  in  all  aspects,  in 
all  their  relations,  in  all  their  hopes,  in  all  their  recollections  of  the 
past,  in  all  their  prospects  of  the  future  ;  a  people  whose  first  love 
was  the  ocean,  the  choice  of  their  childhood,  the  approbation  of 
their  manly  years,  the  most  precious  inheritance  of  their  fathers  ; 
in  the  midst  of  their  success,  in  the  moment  of  the  most  exquisite 
perception  of  commercial  prosperity,  —  to  be  commanded  to  abandon 
it,  not  for  a  time  limited,  but  for  a  time  unlimited  ;  not  until  they  can 
be  prepared  to  defend  themselves  there  (for  that  is  not  pretended), 
but  until  their  riva^  recede  from  it ;  not  until  their  necessities  re- 
quire, but  until  foreign  nations  permit  !  I  am  lost  in  astonishment, 
Mr.  Chairman.  I  have  not  words  to  express  the  matchless  absurdity 
of  this  attempt.  I  have  no  tongue  to  express  the  swift  and  headlong 
destruction  which  a  blind  perseverance  in  such  a  system  must  bring 
upon  this  nation. 

Mr.  Chairman,  other  gentlemen  must  take  their  responsibilities  ; 
I  shall  take  mine.  This  embargo  must  be  repealed.  You  cannot 
enforce  it  for  any  important  period  of  time  longer.  When  I  speak 
of  your  inability  to  enforce  this  law,  let  not  gentlemen  misunderstand 
me.'  I  mean  not  to  intimate  insurrections  or  open  defiances  of  them, 
although  it  is  impossible  to  foresee  in  what  acts  that  "  oppression  " 
will  finally  terminate,  which,  we  are  told,  "  makes  wise  men  mad." 
I  speak  of  an  inability  resulting  from  very  different  causes. 

The  gentleman  from  North  Carolina  [Mr.  Macon]  exclaimed  the 
other  day,  in  a  strain  of  patriotic  ardor,  "  What !  shall  not  our  laws 
be  executed  ?  Shall  their  authority  be  defied  ?  I  am  for  enforcing 
them  at  every  hazard."  I  honor  that  gentleman's  zeal,  and  I  mean 
no  deviation  from  that  true  respect  I  entertain  for  him  when  I  tell 
him  that,  in  this  instance,  "  his  zeal  is  not  according  to  knowledge." 


46  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

I  ask  this  house,  Is  there  no  control  to  its  authority  ?  Is  there  no 
limit  to  the  power  of  this  national  legislature  ?  I  hope  I  shall  offend 
no  man  when  I  intimate  that  two  limits  exist,  NATURE  AND  THE 
CONSTITUTION.  Should  this  house  undertake  to  declare  that  this 
atmosphere  should  no  longer  surround  us,  that  water  should  cease 
to  flow,  that  gravity  should  not  hereafter  operate,  that  the  needle 
should  not  vibrate  to  the  pole,  I  do  suppose,  Mr.  Chairman,  —  sir, 
I  mean  no  disrespect  to  the  authority  of  this  house  ;  I  know  the 
high  notions  some  gentlemen  entertain  on  this  subject,  —  I  do  sup- 
pose,.—  sir,  I  hope  I  shall  not  offend,  —  I  think  I  may  venture  to 
affirm  that,  such  a  law  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  the  air  would 
continue  to  circulate,  the  Mississippi,  the  Hudson,  and  the  Potomac 
would  hurl  their  floods  to  the  ocean,  heavy  bodies  continue  to  de- 
scend, and  the  mysterious  magnet  hold  on  its  course  to  its  celestial 
cynosure. 

Just  as  utterly  absurd  and  contrary  to  nature  is  it  to  attempt  to 
prohibit  the  people  of  New  England,  for  any  considerable  length  of 
time,  from  the  ocean.  Commerce  is  not  only  associated  with  all  the 
feelings,  the  habits,  the  interests,  and  relations  of  that  people,  but  the 
nature  of  our  soil  and  of  our  coasts,  the  state  of  our  population  and 
its  mode  of  distribution  over  our  territory,  render  it  indispensable. 
We  have  five  hundred  miles  of  sea-coast,  all  furnished  with  harbors, 
bays,  creeks,  rivers,  inlets,  basins  ;  with  every  variety  of  invitation 
to  the  sea ;  with  every  species  of  facility  to  violate  such  laws  as 
these.  Our  people  are  not  scattered  over  an  immense  surface,  at  a 
solemn  distance  from  each  other,  in  lordly  retirement,'  in  the  midst 
of  extended  plantations  and  intervening  wastes.  They  are  collected 
on  the  margin  of  the  ocean,  by  the  sides  of  rivers,  at  the  heads  of 
bays,  looking  into  the  water  or  on  the  surface  of  it  for  the  incitement 
and  the  reward  of  their  industry.  Among  a  people  thus  situated, 
thus  educated,  thus  numerous,  laws  prohibiting  them  from  the  exer- 
cise of  their  natural  rights,  will  have  a  binding  effect  not  one  mo- 
ment longer  than  the  public  sentiment  supports  them.  .  .  . 

But  it  has  been  asked,  in  debate,  "  Will  not  Massachusetts,  the 
cradle  of  liberty,  submit  to  such  privations  ? "  An  embargo  liberty 
was  never  cradled  in  Massachusetts.  Our  Liberty  was  not  so  much 
a  mountain  as  a  sea  nymph.  She  was  free  as  air.  She  could  swim 
or  she  could  run.  The  ocean  was'  her  cradle.  Our  fathers  met 
her  as  she  came,  like  the  goddess  of  beauty,  from  the  waves.  They 
caught  her  as  she  was  sporting  on  the  beach.  They  courted  her 
whilst  she  was  spreading  her  nets  upon  the  rocks.  tBut  an  embargo 


WILLIAM    WIRT.  47 

Liberty,  a  handcuffed  Liberty,  a  Liberty  in  fetters,  a  Liberty  traversing 
between  the  four  sides  of  a  prison  and  beating  her  head  against  the 
walls,  is  none  of  our  offspring.  We  abjure  the  monster.  Its  parent- 
age is  all  inland.  .  .  . 

Let  me  ask,  Is  embargo  independence  ?  Deceive  not  yourselves. 
It  is  palpable  submission.  Gentlemen  exclaim,  Great  Britain 
"smites  us  on  one  cheek."  And  what  does  Administration  ?  "  It 
turns  the  other  also."  Gentlemen  say,  Great  Britain  is  a  robber ; 
she  "  takes  our  cloak"  And  what  says  Administration  ?  "  Let  her 
take  our  coat  also."  France  and  Great  Britain  require  you  to  relin- 
quish a  part  of  your  commerce,  and  you  yield  it  entirely.  Sir,  this 
conduct  may  be  the  way  to  dignity  and  honor  in  another  world,  but 
it  will  never  secure  safety  and  independence  in  this. 


WILLIAM   WIRT. 

William  Wirt  was  born  at  Bladensburg,  in  Maryland,  November  8,  1772.  He  was  the 
son  of  a  Swiss  father  and  a  German  mother,  both  of  whom  died  while  he  was  quite  young. 
He  received  his  education  in  the  private  school  of  a  Presbyterian  clergyman,  and,  though  it 
is  fair  to  presume  that  his  progress  in  classical  learning  was  only  moderate,  we  know  that 
he  early  acquired  a  taste  for  reading,  and  devoured  all  the  contents  of  the  master's  library. 
So  rapidly  had  he  gone  over  his  preparatory  course,  that  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  Vir- 
ginia and  commenced  practice  in  his  twentieth  year.  At  that  time,  he  tells  us,  his  library 
consisted  of  Blackstone's  Commentaries,  two  volumes  of  Don  Quixote,  and  Tristram  Shandy. 
His  first  step  in  public  life  was  in  being  chosen  clerk  of  the  Virginia  House  of  Delegates. 
Soon  after  he  was  made  chancellor  of  the  eastern  district  of  the  state.  During  his  residence 
in  Richmond  he  wrote  The  British  Spy,  a  series  of  papers  of  very  unequal  merit.  Two  of 
them,  one  upon  Pocahontas,  and  the  other  an  account  of  the  Blind  Preacher,  are  in  his  best 
style,  animated,  picturesque,  and  touching.  The  scientific  disquisitions  that  burden  most 
of  the  others  are  of  little  value.  Later  appeared  another  series,  entitled  The  Old  Bache- 
lor. They  were  labored  essays,  resembling  those  of  Johnson,  Addison,  and  Steele  only  in 
form ;  and,  in  spite  of  the  favorable  judgment  of  Wirt's  biographer,  Kennedy,  they  must 
be  considered  as  dull.  They  have  fallen  into  total  neglect.  Wirt's  Life  of  Patrick  Henry 
attained  a  great  popularity.  It  is  not  based  on  those  foundations  generally  thought  essen- 
tial to  biography,  since  Wirt  never  saw  Henry,  and  could  only  write  according  to  tradition. 
Nothing  authentic  remained  of  the  eloquence  that  hnd  dazzled  the  generation  preceding. 
But  the  book  was  written  in  a  spirit  of  hearty  sympathy,  and  though  the  style  at  times  is 
opsn  to  critical  objections,  all  things  are  forgiven  to  the  author,  who  carries  his  readers  on, 
with  unwearied  attention,  to  the  close. 

Wirt  was  appointed  attorney  general  of  the  United  States  in  1817,  and  held  the  office 
twelve  years.  His  forensic  speeches  were  learned,  ornate,  and  fervid.  Perhaps  the  most 
favorable  specimen  of  his  oratory  is  the  speech  upon  the  trial  of  Aaron  Burr,  in  which  occurs 
the  episode  of  Blennerhasset's  Island,  a  passage  dear  to  generations  of  school-boys,  and 
lingering  like  a  memory  of  beauty  in  maturer  years.  His  discourse  upon  the  lives  of  Adams 
and  Jefferson,  delivered  in  1826,  was  abo  a  fine  production.  Upon  his  retirement  from 
office  in  1828,  he  went  to  reside  in  Baltimore,  where  he  spent  the  remainder  of  his  life.  He 


48  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

died  in  Washington,  February  18,  1834,  while  attending  the  Supreme  Court.  He  was  a  strik- 
ingly handsome  man,  with  graceful  manners  and  a  musical  voice.  He  was  twice  married 
and  was  happy  in  his  domestic  relations.  Both  in  public  and  in  private  life  his  character 
and  conduct  were  irreproachable.  His  life  was  written  by  the  late  John  P.  Kennedy,  of 
Baltimore. 

[From  the  British  Spy.] 
POCAHONTAS. 

GOOD  Heaven  !  what  an  eventful  life  was  hers  !  To  speak  of 
nothing  else,  the  arrival  of  the  English  in  her  father's  dominion 
must  have  appeared  (as  indeed  it  turned  out  to  be)  a  most  porten- 
tous phenomenon.  It  is  not  easy  for  us  to  conceive  the  amazement 
and  consternation  which  must  have  filled  her  mind  and  that  of  her 
nation  at  the  first  appearance  of  our  countrymen.  Their  great  ship, 
with  all  her  sails  spread,  advancing  in  solemn  majesty  to  the  shore  ; 
their  domestic  animals  ;  their  cargo  of  new  and  glittering  wealth  ; 
and  then  the  thunder  and  irresistible  force  of  their  artillery ;  the 
distant  country  announced  by  them,  far  beyond  the  great  water,  of 
which  the  oldest  Indian  had  never  heard,  or  thought,  or  dreamed,  — 
all  this  was  so  new,  so  wonderful,  so  tremendous,  that  I  do  seriously 
suppose  the  personal  descent  of  an  army  of  Milton's  celestial  angels, 
robed  in  light,  sporting  in  the  bright  beams  of  the  sun  and  redoubling 
their  splendor,  making  divine  harmony  with  their  golden  harps,  or 
playing  with  the  bolt  and  chasing  the  rapid  lightning  of  heaven, 
would  excite  not  more  astonishment  in  Great  Britain  than  did  the 
debarkation  of  the  English  among  the  aborigines  of  Virginia. 

Poor  Indians  !  Where  are  they  now  ?  Indeed,  my  dear  S., 
this  is  a  truly  afflicting  consideration.  The  people  here  may  say 
what  they  please,  but,  on  the  principles  of  eternal  truth  and  justice, 
they  have  no  right  to  this  country.  They  say  that  they  have  bought 
it  —  bought  it  !  Yes,  —  of  whom?  Of  the  poor  trembling  natives 
who  knew  that  refusal  would  be  vain,  and  who  strove  to  make  a 
merit  of  necessity  by  seeming  to  yield  with  grace  what  they  knew 
they  had  not  the  power  to  retain.  Such  a  bargain  might  appease 
the  conscience  of  a  gentleman  of  the  green  bag,  "  worn  and  hack- 
neyed "  in  the  arts  and  frauds  of  his  profession ;  but  in  Heaven's 
chancery,  my  S.,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  it  has  been  long  since 
set  aside  on  the  ground  of  duress. 

Poor  wretches  !  No  wonder  that  they  are  so  implacably  vindic- 
tive against  the  white  people  ;  no  wonder  that  the  rage  of  resent- 
ment is  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation  ;  no  wonder 
they  refuse  to  associate  and  mix  permanently  with  their  unjust  and 


WILLIAM    WIRT.  49 

cruel  invaders  and  exterminators  ;  no  wonder  that  in  the  unabating 
spite  and  frenzy  of  conscious  impotence,  they  wage  an  eternal  war, 
as  well  as  they  are  able  ;  that  they  triumph  in  the  rare  opportunity 
of  revenge  ;  that  they  dance,  sing,  and  rejoice  as  the  victim  shrieks 
and  faints  amid  the  flames,  when  they  imagine  all  the  crimes  of  their 
oppressors  collected  on  his  head,  and  fancy  the  spirits  of  their  in- 
jured forefathers  hovering  over  the  scene,  smiling  ferocious  delight 
at  the  grateful  spectacle,  and  feasting  on  the  precious  odor  as  it 
arises  from  the  burning  blood  of  the  white  man. 

Yet  the  people  here  affect  to  wonder  that  the  Indians  are  so  very 
unsusceptible  of  civilization,  or,  in  other  words,  that  they  so  obsti- 
nately refuse  to  adopt  the  manners  of  the  white  men.  Go,  Vir- 
ginians, erase  from  the  Indian  nation  the  tradition  of  their  wrongs  ; 
make  them  forget,  if  you  can,  that  once  this  charming  country  was 
theirs  ;  that  over  these  fields  and  through  these  forests  their  be- 
loved forefathers  once,  in  careless  gayety,  pursued  their  sports  and 
hunted  their  game  ;  that  every  returning  day  found  them  the  sole, 
the  peaceful,  the  happy  proprietors  of  this  extensive  and  beautiful 
domain.  Make  them  forget,  too,  if  you  can,  that  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  innocence,  simplicity,  and  bliss,  the  white  man  came ;  and  lo  ! 
the  animated  chase,  the  feast,  the  dance,  the  song  of  fearless, 
thoughtless  joy  were  over ;  that,  ever  since,  they  have  been  made 
to  drink  of  the  bitter  cup  of  humiliation  ;  treated  like  dogs  ;  their 
lives,  their  liberties,  the  sport  of  the  white  men  ;  their  country  and 
the  graves  of  their  fathers  torn  from  them  in  cruel  succession  —  un- 
til, driven  from  river  to  river,  from  forest  to  forest,  and,  through  a 
period  of  two  hundred  years,  rolled  back  nation  upon  nation,  they 
find  themselves  fugitives,  vagrants,  and  strangers  in  their  own  coun- 
try, and  look  forward  to  the  certain  period  when  their  descendants 
will  be  totally  extinguished  by  wars,  driven,  at  the  point  of  the  bay- 
onet, into  the  western  ocean,  or  reduced  to  a  fate  still  more  deplor- 
able and  horrid,  the  condition  of  slaves.  Go,  administer  the  cup  of 
oblivion  to  recollections  and  anticipations  like  these,  and  then  you 
will  cease  to  complain  that  the  Indian  refuses  to  be  civilized.  But 
until  then,  surely  it  is  nothing  wonderful  that  a  nation,  even  yet 
bleeding  afresh  from  the  memory  of  ancient  wrongs,  perpetually 
agonized  by  new  outrages,  and  goaded  into  desperation  and  madness 
at  the  prospect  of  the  certain  ruin  which  awaits  their  descendants, 
should  hate  the  authors  of  their  miseries,  of  their  desolation,  their 
destruction,  should  hate  their  manners,  hate  their  color,  their  lan- 
guage, their  name,  and  everything  that  belongs  to  them.  No  ;  never 
4 


5O        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

until  time  shall  wear  out  the  history  of  their  sorrows  and  their  suf- 
ferings, will  the  Indian  be  brought  to  love  the  white  man  and  to  imi- 
tate his  manners. 

Great  God  !  To  reflect,  my  S.,  that  the  authors  of  all  these 
wrongs  were  our  own  countrymen,  our  forefathers,  professors  of  the 
meek  and  benevolent  religion  of  Jesus.  O,  it  was  impious,  it  was  un- 
manly, poor,  and  pitiful !  Gracious  Heaven!  What  had  these  poor 
people  done  ?  The  simple  inhabitants  of  these  peaceful  plains,  what 
wrong  what  injury,  had  they  offered  to  the  English  ?  My  soul  melts 
with  pity  and  shame. 

As  for  the  present  inhabitants,  it  must  be  granted  that  they  are 
comparatively  innocent ;  unless,  indeed,  they  also  have  encroached 
under  the  guise  of  treaties,  which  they  themselves  have  previously 
contrived  to  render  expedient  or  necessary  to  the  Indians. 

Whether  this  has  been  the  case  or  not  I  am  too  much  a  stranger 
to  the  interior  transactions  of  this  country  to  decide.  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  were  I  a  president  of  the  United  States,  I  would  glory  in 
going  to  the  Indians,  throwing  myself  on  my  knees  before  them,  and 
saying  to  them,  "  Indians,  friends,  brothers,  O,  forgive  my  country- 
men !  Deeply  have  our  forefathers  wronged  you  ;  and  they  have 
forced  us  to  continue  the  wrong.  Reflect,  brothers,  it  was  not  our 
fault  that  we  were  born  in  your  country  ;  but  now  we  have  no  other 
home ;  we  have  nowhere  else  to  rest  our  feet.  Will  you  not,  then, 
permit  us  to  remain  ?  Can  you  not  forgive  even  us,  innocent  as  we 
are  ?  If  you  can,  O,  come  to  our  bosoms,  be  indeed  our  brothers, 
and,  since  there  is  room  enough  for  us  all,  give  us'  a  home  in  your 
land,  and  let  us  be  children  of  the  same  affectionate  family."  I  be- 
lieve that  a  magnanimity  of  sentiment  like  this,  followed  up  by  a  cor- 
respondent greatness  of  conduct  on  the  part  of  the  people  of  the 
United  States,  would  go  farther  to  bury  the  tomahawk  and  produce 
a  fraternization  with  the  Indians  than  all  the  presents,  treaties,  and 
missionaries  that  can  be  employed,  dashed  and  defeated  as  these 
latter  means  always  are  by  a  claim  of  rights  on  the  part  of  the  white 
people,  which  the  Indians  know  to  be  false  and  baseless.  Let  me 
not  be  told  that  the  Indians  are  too  dark  and 'fierce  to  be  affected  by 
generous  and  noble  sentiments.  I  will  not  believe  it.  Magnanimity 
can  never  be  lost  on  a  nation  which  has  produced  an  Alknomok,  a 
Logan,  and  a  Pocahontas. 


WILLIAM    WIRT.  5  I 

[From  the  same.] 
THE   BLIND   PREACHER. 

IT  was  one  Sunday,  as  I  travelled  through  the  County  of  Orange, 
that  my  eye  was  caught  by  a  cluster  of  horses  tied  near  a  ruinous 
old  wooden  house  in  the  forest,  not  far  from  the  roadside.  Having 
frequently  seen  such  objects  before,  in  travelling  through  these 
states,  I  had  no  difficulty  in  understanding  that  this  was  a  place  of 
religious  worship. 

Devotion  alone  should  have  stopped  me  to  join  in  the  duties  of  the 
congregation  ;  but  I  must  confess  that  curiosity  to  hear  the  preacher 
of  such  a  wilderness  was  not  the  least  of  my  motives.  On  enter- 
ing, I  was  struck  with  his  preternatural  appearance.  He  was  a  tall 
and  very  spare  old  man  ;  his  head,  which  was  covered  with  a  white 
linen  cap,  his  shrivelled  hands,  and  his  voice,  were  all  shaking  under 
tbe  influence  of  a  palsy,  and  a  few  moments  ascertained  to  me  that 
he  was  perfectly  blind. 

The  first  emotions  which  touched  my  breast  were  those  of  mingled 
pity  and  veneration.  But,  ah  !  .  .  .  how  soon  were  all  my 
feelings  changed  !  The  lips  of  Plato  were  never  more  worthy  of  a 
prognostic  swarm  of  bees  than  were  the  lips  of  this  holy  man.  It 
was  a  day  of  the  administration  of  the  sacrament,  and  his  subject,  of 
course,  was  the  passion  of  our  Saviour.  I  had  heard  the  subject 
handled  a  thousand  times  ;  I  had  thought  it  exhausted  long  ago. 
Little  did  I  suppose  that,  in  the  wild  woods  of  America,  I  was  to 
meet  with  a  man  whose  eloquence  would  give  to  this  topic  a  new  and 
more  sublime  pathos  than  I  had  ever  before  witnessed. 

As  he  descended  from  the  pulpit  to  distribute  the  mystic  symbols, 
there  was  a  peculiar,  a  more  than  human  solemnity  in  his  air  and 
manner  which  made  my  blood  run  cold,  and  my  whole  frame  shiver. 

He  then  drew  a  picture  of  the  sufferings  of  our  Saviour  ;  his  trial 
before  Pilate,  his  ascent  up  Calvary,  his  crucifixion,  and  his  death. 
I  knew  the  whole  history,  but  never,  until  then,  had  I  heard  the 
circumstances  so  selected,  so  arranged,  so  colored.  It  was  all  new, 
and  I  seemed  to  have  heard  it  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  His 
enunciation  was  so  deliberate  that  his  voice  trembled  on  every  sylla- 
ble, and  every  heart  in  the  assembly  trembled  in  unison.  His  pecu- 
liar phrases  had  that  force  of  description  that  the  original  scene 
appeared  to  be,  at  that  moment,  acting  before  our  eyes.  We  saw 
the  very  faces  of  the  Jews  ;  the  staring,  frightful  distortions  of  malice 
and  rage  ;  we  saw  the  buffet.  My  soul  kindled  with  a  flame  of 


52  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

indignation,  and  my  hands  were  involuntarily  and  convulsively 
clinched. 

But  when  he  came  to  touch  on  the  patience,  the  forgiving  meek- 
ness, of  our  Saviour ;  when  he  drew,  to  the  life,  his  blessed  eyes 
streaming  in  tears  to  heaven  ;  his  voice  breathing  to  God  a  soft  and 
gentle  prayer  of  pardon  on  his  enemies,  "  Father,  forgive  them,  for 
they  know  not  what  they  do,"  the  voice  of  the  preacher,  which  had 
all  along  faltered,  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  until,  his  utterance  being 
entirely  obstructed  by  the  force  of  his  feelings,  he  raised  his  hand- 
kerchief to  his  eyes,  and  burst  into  a  loud  and  irrepressible  flood  of 
grief.  The  effect  is  inconceivable.  The  whole  house  resounded 
with  the  mingled  groans,  and  sobs,  and  shrieks  of  the  congregation. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  tumult  had  subsided  so  far  as  to  per- 
mit him  to  proceed.  Indeed,  judging  by  the  usual,  but  fallacious, 
standard  of  my  own  weakness,  I  began  to  be  very  uneasy  for  the 
situation  of  the  preacher.  For  I  could  not  conceive  how  he  would 
be  able  to  let  his  audience  down  from  the  height  to  which  he  had 
wound  them,  without  impairing  the  solemnity  and  dignity  of  his  sub- 
ject, or  perhaps  shocking  them  by  the  abruptness  of  the  fall.  But, 
no  ;  the  descent  was  as  beautiful  and  sublime  as  the  elevation  had 
been  rapid  and  enthusiastic. 

The  first  sentence  with  which  he  broke  the  awful  silence  was  a 
quotation  from  Rousseau,  "  Socrates  died  like  a  philosopher,  but 
Jesus  Christ  like  a  God." 

I  despair  of  giving  you  any  idea  of  the  effect  produced  by  this 
short  sentence,  unless  you  could  perfectly  conceive  the  whole  man- 
ner of  the  man,  as  well  as  the  peculiar  crisis  in  the  discourse.  Never 
before  did  I  completely  understand  what  Demosthenes  meant  by 
laying  such  stress  on  delivery.  You  are  to  bring  before  you  the 
venerable  figure  of  the  preacher  ;  his  blindness,  constantly  recalling 
to  your  recollection  old  Homer,  Ossian,  and  Milton,  and  associating 
with  his  performance  the  melancholy  grandeur  of  their  geniuses  ; 
you  are  to  imagine  that  you  hear  his  slow,  solemn,  well-accented 
enunciation,  and  his  voice  of  affecting,  trembling  melody ;  you  are 
to  remember  the  pitch  of  passion  and  enthusiasm  to  which  the  con- 
gregation were  raised ;  and  then  the  few  minutes  of  portentous, 
death-like  silence  which  reigned  throughout  the  house  ;  the  preacher, 
removing  his  white  handkerchief  from  his  aged  face,  even  yet  wet  from 
the  recent  torrent  of  his  tears,  and  slowly  stretching  forth  the  pal- 
sied hand  which  holds  it,  begins  the  sentence,  "  Socrates  died  like 
a  philosopher "  —  then  pausing,  raising  his  other  hand,  pressing 


HENRY    CLAY.  53 

them,  both  clasped  together,  with  warmth  and  energy  to  his  breast, 
lifting  his  "  sightless  balls  "  to  heaven,  and  pouring  his  whole  soul 
into  his  tremulous  voice,  "but  Jesus  Christ — like  a  God!"  If  he  had 
been  indeed  and  in  truth  an  angel  of  light,  the  effect  could  scarcely 
have  been  more  divine. 

Whatever  I  had  been  able  to  conceive  of  the  sublimity  of  Massil- 
lon,  or  the  force  of  Bourdaloue,  had  fallen  far  short  of  the  power 
which  I  felt  from  the  delivery  of  this  simple  sentence.  The  blood 
which  just  before  had  rushed  in  a  hurricane  upon  my  brain,  and,  in 
the  violence  and  agony  of  my  feelings,  had  held  my  whole  system  iu 
suspense,  now  ran  back  into  my  heart,  with  a  sensation  which  I 
cannot  describe — a  kind  of  shuddering,  delicious  horror!  The 
paroxysm  of  blended  pity  and  indignation  to  which  I  had  been  trans- 
ported, subsided  into  the  deepest  self-abasement,  humility,  and  ado- 
ration. I  had  just  been  lacerated  and  dissolved  by  sympathy  for  our 
Saviour  as  a  fellow-creature,  but  now,  with  fear  and  trembling,  I 
adored  him  as  —  "a  God." 


HENRY   CLAY. 

Henry  Gay  was  born  in  Hanover  County,  near  Richmond,  Va.,  April  12,  1777.  His 
father  died  in  his  infancy,  and  his  mother,  having  married  again  (1792),  emigrated  to  Ken- 
tucky. The  lad  was  employed  four  years  in  the  office  of  the  clerk  of  the  Chancery  Court, 
and  there  acquired,  among  other  things,  a  handsome  style  of  penmanship.  While  in  this 
place  he  attracted  the  attention  of  Chancellor  Wythe,  who  employed  him  as  an  amanuensis, 
and  gave  him  good  counsel  upon  his  reading  and  study.  He  obtained  a  license  to  practise 
law  before  he  was  twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  then  removed  to  Lexington,  Ky., 
where  he  opened  an  office.  His  fine  person,  engaging  manners,  and  enthusiastic  temper 
gained  him  hosts  of  friends  and  clients.  After  service  in  the  state  legislature,  he  was 
elected  to  the  United  States  Senate  to  fill  an  unexpired  term  in  1806,  and  again  in  1809.  In 
181 1  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the  national  House  of  Representatives  for  the  first  time,  and 
was  immediately  chosen  speaker.  This  was  at  the  time  when  war  with  Great  Britain  was  in 
prospect,  and  Mr.  Clay  threw  the  whole  weight  of  his  personal  and  official  influence  in  favor 
of  the  war  party.  He  remained  in  Congress  and  in  the  speaker's  chair  until  January,  1814, 
when  he  was  made  one  of  the  commissioners  whose  efforts  finally  brought  about  a  satisfac- 
tory peace  by  the  treaty  of  Ghent.  Being  elected  again  a  member  of  Congress,  in  1815,  he 
was  again  chosen  speaker.  With  the  exception  of  a  single  term,  during  which  he  resumed 
the  practice  of  law  to  repair  some  pecuniary  losses,  he  remained  in  Congress  till  1824,  when, 
having  been  an  unsuccessful  candidate  for  the  presidency,  he  resigned  to  accept  the  place  of 
secretary  of  state  under  John  Quincy  Adams.  As  Mr.  Clay  gave  the  deciding  vote  in  favor 
of  Adams,  —the  election  having  devolved  upon  the  house,  —his  acceptance  of  the  highest 
office  under  the  man  whom  his  vote  had  made  president  raised  a  storm  of  obloquy  through- 
out the  country.  John  Randolph  termed  the  transaction  a  "a  coalition  between  a  Puritan 
and  a  blackleg ."  The  phrase  "  bargain  and  corruption  "  was  bandied  about,  and.  notwith- 
standing the  denial  of  both  Adams  and  Clay,  and  the  corroborative  testimony  of  La  Fayette 


54        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

(to  whom  Clay  had,  in  advance,  declared  his  determination  to  vote  for  Adams),  an  impres- 
sion was  made  upon  the  public  mind  that  was  never  wholly  removed. 

In  1831  Mr.  Clay  was  again  chosen  senator,  and  in  1832  was  again  defeated  as  a  presi- 
dential candidate.  He  was  brought  forward  again  in  the  convention  held  at  Harrisburg  in 
December,  1839,  and  was  undoubtedly  the  first  choice  of  a  large  plurality  of  his  party ;  but 
in  the  end  General  Harrison  obtained  the  nomination.  In  1842  he  took  leave  of  the  Senate 
in  a  speech  of  great  power  and  feeling,  a  portion  of  which  is  here  given.  He  was  again 
an  unsuccessful  candidate  for  the  presidency  in  1844.  The  opposition  of  Clay  to  the  an- 
nexation of  Texas  lost  him  southern  support,  and  the  rise  of  the  third  party,  based  upon 
opposition  to  slavery,  threw  the  plurality  of  several  great  northern  states  against  him. 
Once  more,  in  1848,  Mr.  Clay's  hopes  were  deferred,  and,  this  time,  forever ;  the  doctrine 
of  expediency  again  prevailed,  and  the  hero  of  the  Mexican  war  received  the  coveted 
nomination. 

Mr.  Clay's  farewell  to  the  Senate  proved  not  to  be  final,  for  he  appeared  again  in  1849, 
and  remained  a  member  until  his  death,  which  occurred  June  29,  1852. 

The  nature  of  Mr.  Clay's  mind,  no  less  than  the  circumstances  of  his  life,  made  him  a 
practical  rather  than  a  speculative  man,  a  student  of  human  nature  rather  than  of  books,  a 
ready  debater  rather  than  a  finished  orator.  Few  men  have  been  so  marked  out  by  nature 
as  popular  leaders,  and  few  have  had  the  boldness  to  originate  and  contend  for  a  system  of 
domestic  and  foreign  policy  with  such  undaunted  perseverance.  The  great  idea  of  Mr. 
Clay  was  to  develop  home  manufactures,  and  create  home  markets  for  the  results  of  industry 
by  means  of  a  protective  tariff. 

In  the  light  of  his  numerous  failures  to  attain  the  place  of  chief  magistrate,  it  is  clearly 
evident  that  talents,  statesmanship,  and  public  services  go  for  nothing  in  the  estimation  of 
party  managers,  and  that  the  ambitious  aspirant  may  be  assured  that  his  very  gifts  will 
weigh  him  down  and  make  him  fail  in  the  race  with  the  mediocrity  that  fortune  may  bring 
out  against  him. 

The  purely  literary  merit  of  Mr.  Clay's  speeches  is  not  very  high,  but  his  ideas  are  clearly 
and  forcibly  expressed,  and  the  generous  enthusiasm  of  his  nature  breaks  out  at  times  in 
passages  of  true  eloquence.  His  works  have  been  published,  with  a  memoir  by  the  Rev. 
Calvin  Colton,  in  six  volumes. 

[From  his  Farewell  Address  to  the  United  States  Senate'  in  1842.] 

FROM  1806,  the  period  of  my  entrance  upon  this  noble  theatre, 
with  short  intervals,  to  the  present  time,  I  have  been  engaged  in  the 
public  councils,  at  home  or  abroad.  Of  the  services  rendered 
during  that  long  and  arduous  period  of  my  life  it  does  not  become 
me  to  speak.  History,  if  she  deign  to  notice  me,  and  posterity,  if  the 
recollection  of  my  humble  actions  shall  be  transmitted  to  posterity, 
are  the  best,  the  truest,  and  the  most  impartial  judges.  When  death 
has  closed  the  scene,  their  sentence  will  be  pronounced,  and  to  that 
I  commit  myself.  My  public  conduct  is  a  fair  subject  for  the  criti- 
cism and  judgment  of  my  fellow-men  ;  but  the  motives  by  which  I 
have  been  prompted  are  known  only  to  the  great  Searcher  of  the 
human  heart  and  to  myself;  and  I  trust  I  may  be  pardoned  for 
repeating  a  declaration  made  some  thirteen  years  ago,  that,  whatever 
errors — and  doubtless  there  have  been  many  —  may  be  discovered 
in  a  review  of  my  public  service,  I  can  with  unshaken  confidence 


HENRY    CLAY.  55 

appeal  to  that  divine  Arbiter  for  the  truth  of  the  declaration,  that  I 
have  been  influenced  by  no  impure  purpose,  no  personal  motive  ; 
have  sought  no  personal  aggrandizement ;  but  that  in  all  my  public 
acts  I  have  had  a  single  eye  directed,  and  a  warm  and  devoted  heart 
dedicated,  to  what,  in  my  best  judgment,  I  believed  the  true  interests, 
the  honor,  the  union,  and  the  happiness  of  my  country  required. 

During  that  long  period,  however,  I  have  not  escaped  the  fate 
of  other  public  men,  nor  failed  to  incur  censure  and  detraction  of 
the  bitterest,  most  unrelenting,  and  most  malignant  character ;  and 
though  not  always  insensible  to  the  pain  it  was  meant  to  inflict,  I 
have  borne  it  in  general  with  composure,  and  without  disturbance 
here  [pointing  to  his  breast],  waiting,  as  I  have  done,  in  perfect  and 
undoubting  confidence  for  the  ultimate  triumph  of  justice  and  of 
truth,  and  the  entire  persuasion  that  time  would  settle  all  things  as 
they  should  be,  and  that  whatever  wrong  or  injustice  I  might  ex- 
perience at  the  hands  of  man,  He  to  whom  all  hearts  are  open,  and 
fully  known,  would,  by  the  inscrutable  dispensations  of  his  provi- 
dence, rectify  all  error,  redress  all  wrong,  and  cause  ample  justice  to 
be  done. 

But  I  have  not,  meanwhile,  been  unsustained.  Everywhere 
throughout  the  extent  of  this  great  continent,  I  have  had  cordial, 
warm-hearted,  faithful,  and  devoted  friends,  who  have  known  me, 
loved  me,  and  appreciated  my  motives.  To  them,  if  language  were 
capable  of  fully  expressing  my  acknowledgments,  I  would  now  offer 
all  the  return  I  have  the  power  to  make  for  their  genuine,  dis- 
interested, and  persevering  fidelity  and  devoted  attachment,  the 
feelings  and  sentiments  of  a  heart  overflowing  with  never-ceasing 
gratitude.  If,  however,  I  fail  in  suitable  language  to  express  my 
gratitude  to  them  for  all  the  kindness  they  have  shown  me,  what 
shall  I  say,  what  can  I  say,  at  all  commensurate  with  those  feelings 
of  gratitude  with  which  I  have  been  inspired  by  the  state  whose 
humble  representative  and  servant  I  have  been  in  this  chamber? 

I  emigrated  from  Virginia  to  the  State  -of  Kentucky,  now  nearly 
forty-five  years  ago  ;  I  went  as  an  orphan  boy,  who  had  not  yet 
attained  the  age  of  majority ;  who  had  never  recognized  a  father's 
smile,  nor  felt  his  warm  caresses  ;  poor,  penniless,  without  the 
favor  of  the  great,  with  an  imperfect  and  neglected  education,  hardly 
sufficient  for  the  ordinary  business  and  common  pursuits  of  life  ;  but 
scarce  had  I  set  my  foot  upon  her  generous  soil  when  I  was 
embraced  with  parental  fondness,  caressed  as  though  I  had  been  a 
favorite  child,  and  patronized  with  liberal  and  unbounded  munif- 


56        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

icence.  From  that  period  the  highest  honors  of  the  state  have 
been  freely  bestowed  upon  me  ;  and  when,  in  the  darkest  hour  of 
calumny  and  detraction,  I  seemed  to  be  assailed  by  all  the  rest  of 
the  world,  she  interposed  her  broad  and  impenetrable  shield,  repelled 
the  poisoned  shafts  that  were  aimed  for  my  destruction,  and  vin- 
dicated my  good  name  from  every  malignant  and  unfounded  asper- 
sion. I  return  with  indescribable  pleasure  to  linger  a  while  longer, 
and  mingle  with  the  warm-hearted  and  whole-souled  people  of  that 
state  ;  and  when  the  last  scene  shall  forever  close  upon  me,  I  hope 
that  my  earthly  remains  will  be  laid  under  her  green  sod  with  those 
of  her  gallant  and  patriotic  sons.  .  .  . 

I  go  from  this  place  under  the  hope  that  we  shall,  mutually, 
consign  to  perpetual  oblivion  whatever  personal  collisions  may  at 
any  time  unfortunately  have  occurred  between  us,  and  that  our 
recollections  shall  dwell  in  future  only  on  those  conflicts  of  mind 
with  mind,  those  intellectual  struggles,  those  noble  exhibitions  of 
the  powers  of  logic,  argument,  and  eloquence,  honorable  to  the 
Senate  and  to  the  nation,  in  which  each  has  sought  and  contended 
for  what  he  deemed  the  best  mode  of  accomplishing  one  common 
object  —  the  interest  and  the  happiness  of  our  beloved  country. 
To  these  thrilling  and  delightful  scenes  it  will  be  my  pleasure  and 
my  pride  to  look  back  in  my  retirement  with  unmeasured  satis- 
faction. .  .  . 

In  retiring,  as  I  am  about  to  do,  forever,  from  the  Senate,  suffer 
me  to  express  my  heartfelt  wishes  that  all  the  great  and  patriotic 
objects  of  the  wise  framers  of  our  Constitution  may  be  fulfilled  ;  that 
the  high  destiny  designed  for  it  may  be  fully  answered  ;  and  that  its 
deliberations,  now  and  hereafter,  may  eventuate  in  securing  the 
prosperity  of  our  beloved  country,  in  maintaining  its  rights  and 
honor  abroad,  and  upholding  its  interests  at  home.  I  retire,  I  know, 
at  a  period  of  infinite  distress  and  embarrassment.  I  wish  I  could 
take  my  leave  of  you  under  more  favorable  auspices  ;  but  without 
meaning  at  this  time  to  say  whether  on  any  or  on  whom  reproaches 
for  the  sad  condition  of  the  country  should  fall,  I  appeal  to  the 
Senate  and  to  the  world  to  bear  testimony  to  my  earnest  and  con- 
tinued exertions  to  avert  it,  and  to  the  truth  that  no  blame  can 
justly  attach  to  me. 

May  the  most  precious  blessings  of  heaven  rest  upon  the  whole 
Senate  and  each  member  of  it,  and  may  the  labors  of  every  one  re- 
dound to  the  benefit  of  the  nation  and  the  advancement  of  his  own 
fame  and  renown.  And  when  you  shall  retire  to  the  bosom  of  your 


JAMES    KIRKE    PAULDING.  57 

constituents,. may  you  receive  that  most  cheering  and  gratifying  of  all 
human  rewards  —  their  cordial  greeting  of,  "Well  done,  good  and 
faithful  servant." 

And  now,  Mr.  President  and  Senators,  I  bid  you  all  a  long,  a 
lasting,  and  a  friendly  farewell. 


JAMES  KIRKE  PAULDING. 

James  Kirke  Paulding  was  born  in  Pleasant  Valley,  Dutchess  County,  N.  Y.,  August 
22,  1779.  With  the  exception  of  some  assistance  from  the  village  school,  he  was  self- 
taught.  He  went  to  the  city  of  New  York  while  still  a  youth,  and  obtained  employ- 
ment through  the  aid  of  William  Irving,  who  had  married  his  sister.  Becoming  intimate 
with  Washington  Irving,  a  younger  brother  of  William,  he  turned  his  attention  to  literature, 
and  in  connection  with  his  since  illustrious  friend  he  published  Salmagundi,  a  series  of 
satirical  papers.  We  have  space  only  to  give  the  titles  of  his  numerous  works  :  The  Divert- 
ing History  of  John  Bull  and  Brother  Jonathan,  1812  ;  The  Lay  of  the  Scotch  Fiddle,  a 
parody  upon  Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  1813;  The  United  States  and  England,  a 
political  pamphlet,  1814;  Letters  from  the  South  by  a  Northern  Man,  1817;  The  Back- 
woodsman, a  poem,  1818  ;  anew  series  of  Salmagundi,  1819  ;  a  Sketch  of  Old  England  by  a 
New  England  Man,  1822 ;  John  Bull  in  America,  1824.  His  first  novel,  Konigsmarke,  was 
published  in  1823 ;  Merry  Tales  of  the  Three  Wise  Men  of  Gotham,  in  1826  ;  The  Travel- 
ler's Guide,  in  1828 ;  Tales  of  the  Good  Woman,  in  1829  ;  The  Book  of  St.  Nicholas,  in 
1830.  Then  appeared,  in  1831,  his  best  work,  and  the  one  by  which  his  name  will  be 
remembered,  The  Dutchman's  Fireside.  This  is  a  genuine,  life-like  story,  full  of  stirring 
incidents,  of  picturesque  scenes  and  striking  characters,  for  which  the  author's  early  ex- 
periences had  furnished  the  abundant  materials.  The  amiable  and  whimsical  peculiarities 
of  the  Dutch  settlers,  the  darker  traits  of  Indian  character,  and  the  vicissitudes  of  frontier 
life  have  rarely  been  more  powerfully  sketched.  In  1832  he  published  another  successful 
novel,  Westward  Ho  !  In  1835  appeared  his  Life  of  Washington,  for  youth,  a  well-con- 
sidered and  valuable  work.  The  next  year  he  published  Slavery  in  the  United  States,  a 
treatise  in  which  the  institution  is  warmly  defended.  From  1837  to  1841  he  held  the  post  of 
secretary  of  the  navy.  Upon  his  retirement  he  wrote  two  more  novels,  The  Old  Con- 
tinental, 1846,  and  The  Puritan  and  his  Daughter,  1849.  He  died  April  6,  1860. 

[From  the  Dutchman's  Fireside.] 
THE   HERO   SETS    OUT   FOR   THE   WILDERNESS. 

EARLY  next  morning,  ere  the  tints  of  the  bright  morning  reddened 
the  eastern  sky  or  the  birds  had  left  their  perches  among  the 
clustering  foliage,  all  things  being  ready,  Sybrandt  launched  his 
light  canoe  on  the  smooth  mirror  of  the  Hudson,  and,  assisted  by 
the  dusky  Charon,  old  Tjerck,  paddled  away  upward  towards  the 
sources  of  that  majestic  river.  The  first  day  they  occasionally 
saw,  along  its  low,  luxuriant  borders,  some  scattered  indications  of 
the  footsteps  of  the  white  man,  and  heard,  amid  the  high,  towering 
forests  at  a  distance  in  the  uplands,  the  axe  of  the  first  settler,  the 


58  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

crash  of  the  falling  tree,  the  barking  of  the  deep-mouthed  hound, 
and  the  report  of  a  solitary,  distant  gun,  repeated  over  and  over  by 
the  echoes,  never  perhaps  awakened  thus  before.  A  rude  hut,  the 
first  essay  towards  improvement  upon  the  Indian  wigwam,  appeared 
here  and  there  at  long  intervals  along  the  shores,  the  image  of 
desertion  and  desolation,  but  teeming  with  life.  As  they  passed 
along,  the  little,  half-clothed,  white-haired  urchins  poured  forth, 
gazing  and  shouting  at  the  passing  strangers.  Gradually  these 
evidences  of  the  progress  of  that  roving,  adventurous  race,  which  is 
sending  forth  its  travellers,  its  merchants,  its  scholars,  its  warriors, 
and  its  missionaries,  armed  with  the  sword  and  the  Bible,  into  every 
region  of  the  peopled  earth,  ceased  altogether.  Nature  displayed 
herself  naked  before  them,  and  the  innocent  earth  exhibited  her 
beauties  in  all  the  careless,  unstudied  simplicity  of  our  first  parents, 
ere  the  sense  of  guilt  taught  them  to  blush  and  be  ashamed.  There 
was  silence  on  the  earth,  on  the  waters,  and  in  the  air,  save  when 
the  Creator's  voice  spoke  in  the  whirlwind,  the  thunder,  the  raging 
of  the  river  when  the  full-charged  clouds  poured  their  deluge  into  its 
placid  bosom. 

Night,  which  in  the  crowded  haunts  of  men  is  the  season  of 
silence  and  repose,  was  here  far  more  noisy  than  the  day.  It  was 
then  that  the  prowling  freebooters  of  the  woods  issued  from  their 
recesses  to  seek  their  prey  and  hymn  their  shrill  or  growling  vespers 
to  the  changeful  moon  or  the  everlasting  stars,  those  silent  witnesses 
of  what  mortals  wish  to  hide.  As  they  toiled  upward  in  the  moon- 
light evenings  against  the  current,  which  every  day  became  more 
rapid  in  approaching  towards  the  falls,  they  were  hailed  from  the 
shore  at  intervals  by  the  howl  of  the  wolves,  the  growling  of  the 
bears,  and  the  cold,  cheerless  quaverings  of  the  solitary  screech-owl. 
When,  tired  with  the  labors  of  the  day,  they  drew  their  canoe  to  the 
shore  and  lay  by  for  the  night,  their  only  safety  was  in  lighting  a  fire 
and  keeping  it  burning  all  the  time.  This  simple  expedient  furnishes 
the  sole  security  against  the  ferocious  hunger  of  these  midnight 
marauders,  who  stay  their  approach  at  a  certain  distance,  where 
they  stand  and  utter  their  cry,  and  glare  with  their  eyes,  a  mark  for 
the  woodsman,  who  takes  his  aim  directly  between  these  two  balls 
of  living  fire.  . 

A   RIVER  VOYAGE   IN   FORMER   TIMES. 

CATALINA,  accompanied  by  her  father,  embarked  on  board  of  the 
good  ship  Watervliet,  whereof  was  commander  Captain  Baltus  Van 


JAMES    KIRKE    PAULDING.  59 

Slingerland,  a  most  experienced,  deliberative,  and  circumspective 
skipper.  This  vessel  was  noted  for  making  quick  passages,  wherein 
she  excelled  the  much-vaunted  Liverpool  packets  ;  seldom  being 
more  than  three  weeks  in  going  from  Albany  to  New  York,  unless 
when  she  chanced  to  run  on  the  flats,  for  which,  like  her  worthy 
owners,  she  seemed  to  have  an  instinctive  preference.  Captain 
Baltus  was  a  navigator  of  great  sagacity  and  courage,  having  been 
the  first  man  that  ever  undertook  the  dangerous  voyage  between  the 
two  cities  without  asking  the  prayers  of  the  church  and  making  his 
will.  Moreover,  he  was  so  cautious  in  all  his  proceedings  that  he 
took  nothing  for  granted,  and  would  never  be  convinced  that  his 
vessel  was  near  a  shoal  or  a  sand-bank  until  she  was  high  and  dry 
aground.  When  properly  certified  by  ocular  demonstration,  he 
became  perfectly  satisfied,  and  set  himself  to  smoking  till  it  pleased 
the  waters  to  rise  and  float  him  off  again.  His  patience  under  an 
accident  of  this  kind  was  exemplary  ;  his  pipe  was  his  consolation  — 
more  effectual  than  all  the  precepts  of  philosophy. 

It  was  a  fine  autumnal  morning,  calm,  still,  clear,  and  beautiful. 
The  forests,  as  they  nodded  or  slept  quietly  on  the  borders  of  the 
pure  river,  reflected  upon  its  bosom  a  varied  carpet,  adorned  with 
every  shade  of  color.  The  bright  yellow  poplar,  the  still  brighter 
scarlet  maple,  the  dark-brown  oak,  and  the  yet  more  sombre  ever- 
green pine  and  hemlock,  together  with  a  thousand  various  trees  and 
shrubs,  of  a  thousand  varied  tints,  all  mingled  in  one  rich,  inex- 
pressibly rich  garment,  with  which  Nature  seemed  desirous  of  hiding 
her  faded  beauties  and  approaching  decay.  The  vessel  glided 
slowly  with  the  current,  now  and  then  assisted  by  a  little  breeze, 
that  for  a  moment  rippled  the  surface  and  filled  the  sails,  and  then 
died  away  again.  In  this  manner  they  approached  the  Overslaugh, 
a  place  infamous  in  all  past  time  for  its  narrow,  crooked  channel, 
and  the  sand-banks  with  which  it  is  infested.  The  vigilant  Van 
Slingerland,  in  view  of  possible  contingencies,  replenished  his  pipe, 
and  inserted  it  in  the  button-holes  of  his  Dutch  pea-jacket,  to  be  ready 
on  an  emergency. 

"  Boss,"  said  the  ebony  Palinurus,  who  presided  over  the  destinies 
of  the  good  sloop  Watervliet,  "  boss,  don't  you  tink  I'd  better  put 
about  ?  I  tink  we're  close  to  the  Overslaugh,  now." 

Captain  Baltus  very  leisurely  walked  to  the  bow  of  the  vessel,  and, 
after  looking  about  a  little,  replied,  "  Leetle  furder,  a  leetle  furder, 
Brom  ;  no  occasion  to  pe  in  zuch  a  hurry  pefore  you  are  zure 
of  a  ting." 


6O        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Brom  kept  on  his  course,  grumbling  a  little  in  an  undertone,  until 
the  sloop  came  to  a  sudden  stop.  The  captain  then  bestirred  him- 
self to  let  go  the  anchor. 

"  No  fear,  boss  ;  she  won't  run  away." 

"Very  well,"  quoth  Captain  Baltus  ;  I  am  zatisfied  now,  berfectly 
zatisfied.  We  are  certainly  on  de  Overslaugh." 

"  As  clear  as  mud,"  answered  Brom.  The  captain  then  proceeded 
to  light  his  pipe,  and  Brom  followed  his  example.  Every  quarter  of 
an  hour  a  sloop  would  glide  past  in  perfect  safety,  warned  of  the 
precise  situation  of  the  bar  by  the  position  of  the  Watervliet,  and 
added  to  the  vexation  of  our  travellers  at  being  thus  left  behind. 
But  Captain  Baltus  smoked  away, -now  and  then  ejaculating,  "Ay, 
ay ;  de  more  hashte  de  lesch  shpeed  ;  we  shall  see  py  and  py." 

As  the  tide  ebbed,  the  vessel  which  had  grounded  on  the  extremity 
of  the  sand-bank  gradually  heeled  on  one  side,  until  it  was  difficult 
to  keep  the  deck,  and  Colonel  Vancour  suggested  the  propriety  of 
going  on  shore  until  she  righted  again. 

"  Why,  where's  de  uze,  den,"  replied  Captain  Baltus,  "  of  daking 
all  tis  drouble,  boss  ?  We  shall  pe  off  in  dwo  or  dree  tays  at  most. 
It  will  pe  vull  moon  tay  after  to-morrow." 

"Two  or  three  days  !  "  exclaimed  the  colonel.  "  If  I  thought  so, 
I  would  go  home  and  wait  for  you." 

"  Why,  where's  de  uze,  den,  of  daking  zo  much  drouble,  golonel  ? 
You'd  only  have  to  gome  pack  again." 

"  But  why  don't  you  lighter  your  vessel  or  carry  out  an  anchor  ? 
She  seems  just  on  the  edge  of  the  bank,  almost  ready  to  slide  into 
the  deep  water." 

"  Why,  where's  de  uze,  den,  of  daking  zo  much  drouble,  den  ? 
She'll  get  off  herzelf  one  of  deze  days,  golonel.  You  are  well  off 
here  ;  netting  to  do,  and  de  young  woman  dare  can  knid  you  a  bair 
of  stogings  to  bass  de  dime." 

"  But  she  can't  knit  stockings,"  said  the  colonel,  smiling. 

"  Not  knid  stogings  !  Py  main  zoul,  den,  what  is  zhe  goot  vor  ? 
Den  zhe  must  zmoke  a  bipe  ;  dat  is  de  next  pest  way  of  bassing  de 
dime." 

"  But  she  don't  smoke,  either,  captain." 

"  Not  zmoke,  nor  kni4  stogings  ?  Where  was  zhe  prought  ub, 
den  ?  I  wouldn't  have  her  vor  my  wife  iv  zhe  had  a  whole  zloop  vor 
her  vortune.  I  don't  know  what  zhe  gan  do  to  bass  de  dime  dill 
next  vull  moon,  put  go  to  zleep  ;  dat  is  de  next  pest  ding  to  knidding 
and  zmoking." 


JOSEPH    STORY.  6l 

Catalina  was  highly  amused  at  Captain  Baltus's  enumeration  of 
the  sum  total  of  her  resources  for  passing  the  time.  Fortunately, 
however,  the  next  rising  of  the  tide  floated  them  off,  and  the  vessel 
proceeded  gallantly  on  her  way,  with  a  fine  north-west  breeze,  which 
carried  her  on  with  almost  the  speed  of  a  steamboat.  In  the  course 
of  a  few  miles  they  overtook  and  passed  several  sloops  that  had  left 
th'e  Watervliet  aground  on  the  Overslaugh. 


JOSEPH   STORY. 

Joseph  Story  was  born  in  Marblehead,  Mass.,  September  18,  1779.  He  received  his 
education  at  Harvard  College,  graduating  in  1798,  and  then  commenced  the  study  of  law. 
He  published  a. volume  of  poems  in  1804,  but,  as  the  book  was  not  successful,  he  "took  a 
lawyer's  farewell  of  the  muse,"  and  devoted  his  time  to  legal  learning.  He  was  elected  a 
member  of  the  state  legislature  in  1805,  and  was  chosen  a  representative  in  Congress  in 
1809.  In  politics  he  sided  with  the  republicans,  the  supporters  of  Jefferson,  although  some 
independent  votes  showed  that  he  was  not  altogether  a  partisan.  In  1811  he  was  appointed 
by  Madison  an  associate  justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States,  a  place  which  he 
occupied  thirty-four  years.  Upon  the  establishment  of  the  Dane  law  professorship  in  Cam- 
bridge, in  1829,  he  was  called  to  the  chair,  and  continued  to  deliver  lectures  during  the  vaca- 
tions of  the  Supreme  Court  until  his  death.  He  was  as  distinguished  for  his  industry  as  for 
his  learning,  and  contributed  more  volumes  to  the  literature  of  law  than  any  modern  author. 
Besides  the  vast  number  of  reports  of  cases  decided  in  his  long  term  of  service,  he  wrote  a 
Commentary  on  the  Constitution,  and  treatises  on  the  Conflict  of  Laws,  Bailments,  Agency, 
Partnership,  and  numerous  other  topics.  He  still  found  time  for  other  literary  works,  con- 
sisting mainly  of  orations  and  reviews.  These  were  embodied  in  a  collection  of  Miscel- 
laneous Writings,  published,  after  his  death,  by  his  son  and  biographer. 

The  style  of  Judge  Story  is  clear,  flowing,  and  often  elegant.  His  legal  knowledge  was 
undoubtedly  great,  but  his  opinions  are  somewhat  diffuse,  and  lack  the  point  that  charac- 
terizes some  less  known  authors. 

He  died  at  Cambridge,  September  10,  1845. 

The  extract  here  given  is  from  an  oration  delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  of 
Harvard  College. 

CLASSICAL  LEARNING. 

THE  importance  of  classical  learning  to  professional  education  is 
so  obvious,  that  the  surprise  is,  that  it  could  ever  have  become  mat- 
ter of  disputation.  I  speak  not  of  its  power  in  refining  the  taste,  in 
disciplining  the  judgment,  in  invigorating  the  understanding,  or  in 
warming  the  heart  with  elevated  sentiments,  but  of  its  power  of 
direct,  positive,  necessary  instruction.  Until  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury the  mass  of  science,  in  its  principal  branches,  was  deposited  in 
the  dead  languages,  and  much  of  it  still  reposes  there.  To  be  igno- 
rant of  these  languages  is  to  shut  out  the  lights  of  former  times,  or 
to  examine  them  only  through  the  glimmerings  of  inadequate  trans- 


62  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

lations.  What  should  we  say  of  the  jurist  who  never  aspired  to 
learn  the  maxims  of  law  and  equity  which  adorn  the  Roman  codes  ? 
What  of  the  physician  who  could  deliberately  surrender  all  the 
knowledge  heaped  up  for  so  many  centuries  in  the  Latinity  of  conti- 
nental Europe  ?  What  of  the  minister  of  religion  who  should  choose 
not  to  study  the  Scriptures  in  the  original  tongue,  and  should  be 
content  to  trust  his  faith  and  his  hopes,  for  time  and  for  eternity,  to 
the  dimness  of  translations,  which  may  reflect  the  literal  import,  but 
rarely  can  reflect,  with  unbroken  force,  the  beautiful  spirit  of  the 
text  ? 

I  pass  over  all  consideration  of  the  written  treasures  of  antiquity 
which  have  survived  the  wreck  of  empires  and  dynasties  ;  of  monu- 
mental trophies  and  triumphal  arches  ;  of  palaces  of  princes  and 
temples  of  the  gods.  I  pass  over  all  consideration  of  those  admired 
compositions  in  which  wisdom  speaks  as  with  a  voice  from  heaven  ; 
of  those  sublime  efforts  of  poetical  genius  which  still  freshen,  as  they 
pass  from  age  to  age,  in  undying  vigor  ;  of  those  finished  histories 
which  still  enlighten  and  instruct  governments  in  their  duty  and 
their  destiny ;  of  those  matchless  orations  which  roused  nations  to 
arms,  and  chained  senates  to  the  chariot-wheels  of  all-conquering 
eloquence.  These  all  may  now  be  read  in  our  vernacular  tongue. 
Ay,  as  one  remembers  the  face  of  a  dead  friend  by  gathering  up  the 
broken  fragments  of  his  image  ;  as  one  listens  to  the  tale  of  a  dream 
twice  told  ;  as  one  catches  the  roar  of  the  ocean  in  the  ripple  of  a 
rivulet ;  as  one  sees  the  blaze  of  noon  in  the  first  glimmer  of  twi- 
light. There  is  not  a  single  nation,  from  the  north'  to  the  south  of 
Europe,  from  the  bleak  shores  of  the  Baltic  to  the  bright  plains  of 
immortal  Italy,  whose  literature  is  not  embedded  in  the  very  elements 
of  classical  learning.  The  literature  of  England  is,  in  an  emphatic 
sense,  the  production  of  her  scholars  ;  of  men  who  have  cultivated 
letters  in  her  universities,  and  colleges,  and  grammar  schools  ;  of 
men  who  thought  any  life  too  short,  chiefly  because  it  left  some  relic 
of  antiquity  unmastered,  and  any  other  fame  humble,  because  it  faded 
in  the  presence  of  Roman  and  Grecian  genius.  He  who  studies 
English  literature  without  the  lights  of  classical  learning,  loses  half 
the  charms  of  its  sentiments  and  style,  of  its  force  and  feelings,  of 
its  delicate  touches,  of  its  delightful  allusions,  of  its  illustrative  asso- 
ciations. Who,  that  reads  the  poetry  of  Gray,  does  not  feel  that  it 
is  the  refinement  of  classical  taste  which  gives  such  inexpressible 
vividness  and  transparency  to  his  diction  ?  Who,  that  reads  the 
concentrated  sense  and  melodious  versification  of  Dryden  and  Pope, 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON.  63 

does  not  perceive  in  them  the  disciples  of  the  old  school,  whose 
genius  was  inflamed  by  the  heroic  verse,  the  terse  satire,  and  the 
playful  wit  of  antiquity  ?  Who,  that  meditates  over  the  strains  of 
Milton,  does  not  feel  that  he  drank  deep  at 

"  Siloa's  brook,  that  flowed 
Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God, "  — 

that  the  fires  of  his  magnificent  mind  were  lighted  by  coals  from  an- 
cient altars  ? 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  declare  that  he  who  proposes  to  abolish 
classical  studies  proposes  to  render,  in  a  great  measure,  inert  and 
unedifying  the  mass  of  English  literature  for  three  centuries  ;  to  rob 
us  of  the  glory  of  the  past,  and  much  of  the  instruction  of  future 
ages ;  to  bind  us  to  excellences  which  few  may  hope  to  equal,  and 
none  to  surpass  ;  to  annihilate  associations  which  are  interwoven 
with  our  best  sentiments,  and  give  to  distant  times  and  countries  a 
presence  and  reality,  as  if  they  were  in  fact  his  own. 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON. 

Washington  Allston  was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C,  November  5,  1779.  He  was  prepared 
for  college  at  a  private  school  in  Newport,  R.  I.,  and  was  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1800. 
Being  determined  to  devote  himself  to  art,  he  sold  his  property,  and  passed  three  years  as 
a  student  of  the  Royal  Academy  in  London.  He  pursued  his  studies  for  several  years 
afterwards  in  Rome.  It  was  at  this  period  that  Washington  Irving  met  him,  and  recorded 
his  impressions  of  him:  "There  was  something,  to  me,  inexpressibly  engaging  in  the 
appearance  and  manners  of  Allston.  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  been  more  completely  cap- 
tivated on  a  first  acquaintance.  He  was  of  a  light  and  graceful  form,  with  large  blue  eyes 
and  black  silken  hair  waving  and  curling  around  a  pale,  expressive  countenance.  Everything 
about  him  bespoke  the  man  of  intellect  and  refinement.  His  conversation  was  copious,  ani- 
mated, and  highly  graphic,  warmed  by  a  genial  sensibility  and  benevolence,  and  enlivened, 
at  times,  by  a  chaste  and  gentle  humor." 

Allston  was  married  in  1809  to  a  sister  of  Rev.  Dr.  Channing,  and  lived  in  Boston  two 
years.  He  then  returned  to  Europe,  and  remained  abroad  until  1818.  His  longest  poem, 
"The  Sylphs  of  the  Seasons,"  was  published  in  London,  1813,  the  year  in  which  his  wife 
died.  In  1830  he  was  married  to  a  sister  of  the  poet  Dana,  and  lived  in  Cambridgeport 
from  that  time  until  his  death  in  1843.  Monaldi.  an  Italian  romance  of  singular  power  and 
marked  individuality,  was  published  in  1831.  His  Lectures  on  Art,  four  in  number,  did  not 
appear  until  after  his  death. 

During  his  residence  in  Cambridgeport,  he  came  under  the  observation  of  another  author, 
Professor  Lowell,  whose  poetical  portrait  of  him,  in  later  years,  is  worth  setting  against 
Irving's  affectionate  sketch :  "  So  refined  was  his  whole  appearance,  so  fastidiously  neat 
his  apparel,  — but  with  a  neatness  that  seemed  less  the  result  of  care  and  plan  than  a  some- 
thing as  proper  to  the  man  as  whiteness  to  the  lily,  —  that  you  would  at  once  have  classed 
him  with  those  individuals,  rarer  than  great  captains,  and  almost  as  rare  as  great  poets, 
whom  Nature  sends  into  the  world  to  fill  the  arduous  office  of  gentleman.  ...  A  nimbus 


64        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

of  hair,  fine  as  an  infant's,  and  early  white,  showing  refinement  of  organization  and  the 
predominance  of  the  spiritual  over  the  physical,  undulated  and  floated  around  a  face  that 
seemed  like  pale  flame,  and  over  which  the  flitting  shades  of  expression  chased  each  other, 
fugitive  and  gleaming  as  waves  upon  a  field  of  rye.  .  .  .  Here  was  a  man  all  soul,  whose 
body  seemed  a  lamp  of  finest  clay,  whose  service  was  to  feed,  with  magic  oils,  rare  and  fra- 
grant, that  wavering  fire  which  hovered  over  it." 

This  is  not  the  place  to  discuss  Allston's  merits  as  an  artist ;  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that,  in 
the  judgment  of  many  competent  critics,  he  is  the  greatest  painter  of  our  English  race. 
His  writings,  both  in  prose  and  poetry,  have  so  much  of  imagination  and  force,  and  are  set 
forth  in  such  a  pure  and  fitting  style,  that  we  can  but  regret  that  he  produced  so  little. 
His  fastidious  taste  kept  him  so  long  retouching  and  refining  both  pictures  and  poems  that 
a  single  lifetime  was  not  sufficient  for  the  completion  of  any  large  number  of  either.  A  col- 
lection of  his  poems  and  lectures  was  made  by  his  brother-in-law,  R.  H.  Dana.  Moualdi 
is  still  to  be  found  on  the  shelves  of  booksellers,  in  a  separate  volume. 

[From  The  Sylphs  of  the  Seasons.] 

THEN  spake  the  Sylph  of  Spring  serene  : 
"  'Tis  I  thy  joyous  heart,  I  ween, 

With  sympathy  shall  move  ; 
For  I  with  living  melody 
Of  birds,  in  choral  symphony, 
First  waked  thy  soul  to  poesy, 

To  piety,  and  love. 

"  When  thou,  at  call  of  vernal  breeze, 
And  beckoning  bough  of  budding  trees, 

Hast  left  thy  sullen  fire, 
And  stretched  thee  in  some  mossy  dell, 
And  heard  the  browsing  wether's  bell, 
Blithe  echoes  rousing  from  their  cell 

To  swell  the  tinkling  choir,  — 

"  Or  heard  from  branch  of  flowering  thorn 
The  song  of  friendly  cuckoo  warn 

The  tardy-moving  swain  ; 
Hast  bid  the  purple  swallow  hail, 
And  seen  him  now  through  ether  sail, 
Now  sweeping  downward  o'er  the  vale, 

And  skimming  now  the  plain ;  — 

"Then,  catching  with  a  sudden  glance, 
The  bright  and  silver-clear  expanse 
Of  some  broad  river's  stream, 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON.  65 

Behold  the  boats  adown  it  glide, 
And  motion  wind  again  the  tide, 
Where,  chained  in  ice,  by  winter's  pride, 
Late  rolled  the  heavy  team  ;  — 

"  Or,  lured  by  some  fresh-scented  gale, 
That  wooed  the  moored  fisher's  sail 

To  tempt  the  mighty  main, 
Hast  watched  the  dim,  receding  shore, 
Now  faintly  seen  the  ocean  o'er, 
Like  hanging  cloud,  and  now  no  more 

To  bound  the  sapphire  plain  ;  — 

"  Then,  wrapped  in  night,  the  scudding  bark 
(That  seemed,  self-poised  amid  the  dark, 

Through  upper  air  to  leap), 
Beheld,  from  thy  most  fearful  height, 
The  rapid  dolphin's  azure  light 
Cleave,  like  a  living  meteor  bright, 

The  darkness  of  the  deep  ;  — 

"  'Twas  mine  the  warm,  awakening  hand, 
That  made  thy  grateful  heart  expand, 

And  feel  the  high  control 
Of  Him,  the  mighty  Power,  that  moves 
Amid  the  waters  and  the  groves, 
And  through  his  vast  creation  proves 

His  omnipresent  soul ;  — 

"  Or,  brooding  o'er  some  forest  rill, 
Fringed  with  the  early  daffodil 

And  quivering  maiden-hair, 
When  thou  hast  marked  the  dusky  bed, 
With  leaves  and  water-rust  o'erspread, 
That  seemed  an  amber  light  to  shed 

On  all  was  shadowed  there  ;  — 

"  And  thence,  as  by  its  murmur  called, 
The  current  traced  to  where  it  brawled 

Beneath  the  noontide  ray, 
And  there  beheld  the  checkered  shade 
5 


66  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Of  waves,  in  many  a  sinuous  braid, 
That  o'er  the  sunny  channel  played, 
With  motion  ever  gay  ;  — 

"  'Twas  I  to  these  the  magic  gave, 
That  made  thy  heart  a  willing  slave, 

To  gentle  Nature  bend, 
And  taught  thee  how,  with  tree  and  flower, 
And  whispering  gale,  and  dropping  shower, 
In  converse  sweet  to  pass  the  hour, 

As  with  an  early  friend  ;  — 

"  That  'mid  the  noontide,  sunny  haze 
Did  in  thy  languid  bosom  raise 

The  raptures  of  the  boy, 
When,  waked  as  if  to  second  birth, 
Thy  soul  through  every  pore  looked  forth, 
And  gazed  upon  the  beauteous  earth 

With  myriad  eyes  of  joy  ;  — 

"  That  made  thy  heart,  like  His  above, 
To  flow  with  universal  love 

For  every  living  thing. 
And,  O,  if  I,  with  ray  divine, 
Thus  tempering,  did  thy  soul  refine, 
Then  let  thy  gentle  heart  be  mine, 

And  bless  the  Sylph  of  Spring." 


SONNET 

OF    A    FALLING    GROUP    IN    THE  LAST    JUDGMENT     OF    MICHAEL    ANGELO,    I 
SISTINE  CHAPEL. 

How  vast,  how  dread,  o'erwhelming,  is  the  thought 
Of  space  interminable  !  to  the  soul 

A  circling  weight  that  crushes  into  nought 
Her  mighty  faculties  !  a  wondrous  whole, 

Without  or  parts,  beginning,  or  an  end  ! 

How  fearful,  then,  on  desperate  wings  to  send 

The  fancy  e'en  amid  the  waste  profound  ! 

Yet,  born  as  if  all  daring  to  astound, 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON.  6/ 

Thy  giant  hand,  O  Angelo,  hath  hurled 
E'en  human  forms,  with  all  their  mortal  weight, 
Down  the  dread  void,  —  fall  endless  as  their  fate  ! 

Already  now  they  seem  from  world  to  world 
For  ages  thrown  ;  yet  doomed,  another  past, 
Another  still  to  reach,  nor  e'er  to  reach  the  last 


AMERICA   TO   GREAT  BRITAIN. 

ALL  hail,  thou  noble  land, 
Our  fathers'  native  soil ; 
O,  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 

Gigantic  grown  by  toil, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore  ! 
For  thou  with  magic  might 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phoebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er! 

The  genius  of  our  clime, 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep, 
Shall  hail  the  guest  sublime  ; 

While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 

With  their  conchs  the  kindred  league  shall  proclaim. 
Then  let  the  world  combine,  — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line 
Like  the  milky-way  shall  shine 
Bright  in  fame. 

Though  ages  long  have  passed 

Since  our  fathers  left  their  home, 
Their  pilot  in  the  blast, 

O'er  untra veiled  seas  to  roam, 
Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins  ; 
And  shall  we  not  proclaim 
That  blood  of  honest  fame 
Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 
By  its  chains  ? 

While  the  language  free  and  bold 
Which  the  Bard  of  Avon  sung, 


68        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

In  which  our  Milton  told 

How  the  vault  of  heaven  rung 
When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host ;  — 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet, 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 
From  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Round  our  coast ;  — 

While  the  manners,  while  the  arts, 

That  mould  a  nation's  soul, 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts, 

Between  let  Ocean  roll, 
Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  sun : 
Yet  still  from  either  beach 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach, 
More  audible  than  speech, 
"  We  are  One." 


JOHN  JAMES   AUDUBON. 

John  James  Audubon,  the  son  of  an  admiral  in  the  French  navy,  was  born  on  a  planta- 
tion in  Louisiana,  May  4,  1780.  Nature  had  destined  him  to  be  her  enthusiastic  student 
and  interpreter.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  birds  from  his  infancy,  and  began  to  draw 
and  color  at  a  very  early  age.  He  was  sent  to  France  to  be  educated,  and  passed  some 
time  in  the  studio  of  the  eminent  painter  David.  He  returned  to  America,  and  lived  in 
Pennsylvania,  and  afterwards  in  Kentucky,  supporting  himself  by  trade/  but  devoting  most 
of  his  time,  and  all  his  thoughts,  to  the  prosecution  of  his  favorite  studies.  After  encoun- 
tering difficulties,  and  meeting  with  accidents  enough  to  have  checked  the  enthusiasm  of 
ordinary  men,  his  great  work  was  accomplished.  His  Birds  of  America  is  a  monument  of 
genius  and  industry  ;  the  designs  are  exquisite,  every  bird  appearing  with  its  native  sur- 
roundings. Nor  are  they  merely  correct  in  form  and  color  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  are  shown 
in  characteristic  attitudes  or  in  natural  motion,  and  every  figure  is  instinct  with  life.  The 
letter-press  descriptions  mostly  concern  us.  They  are  simply  perfect,  equally  removed  from 
the  insipidity  of  a  so-called  "popular  "  style  and  from  the  scientific  dryness  that  usually  marks 
the  mere  naturalist.  His  own  personal  adventures  are  modestly  told,  and  give  a  rare  charm  to 
the  work.  It  will  readily  be  imagined  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  make  selections  that  will  do 
justice  to  such  an  author.  Scattered  through  his  volumes  are  many  touches  of  nature,  and 
hints  of  scenery  that  are  inimitable  —  especially  because  they  are  the  unconscious  utterances  of 
a  soul  highly  susceptible  to  beauty,  and  without  the  least  vain  desire  of  parading  its  emotions. 

The  extract  here  given  is  by  no  means  the  best  specimen  of  the  author's  powers,  but  it 
was  chosen  mainly  because  it  contains  a  vivid  description  of  a  marvellous  fact  in  nature. 

THE   PASSENGER   PIGEON. 

THE  passenger  pigeon,  or,  as  it  is  usually  named  in  America,  the 
wild  pigeoa,  moves  with  extreme  rapidity,  propelling  itself  by  quickly 


JOHN   JAMES    AUDUBON.  69 

repeated  flaps  of  the  wings,  which  it  brings  more  or  less  near  to  the 
body,  according  to  the  degree  of  velocity  which  is  required.  .  .  . 

Their  great  power  of  flight  enables  them  to  survey  and  pass  over 
an  astonishing  extent  of  country  in  a  very  short  time.  This  is  proved 
by  facts  well  known  in  America.  Thus  pigeons  have  been  killed  in 
the  neighborhood  of  New  York,  with  their  crops  full  of  rice,  which 
they  must  have  collected  in  the  fields  of  Georgia  and  Carolina,  these 
districts  being  the  nearest  in  which  they  could  possibly  have  procured 
a  supply  of  that  kind  of  food.  As  their  power  of  digestion  is  so 
great  that  they  will  decompose  food  entirely  in  twelve  hours,  they 
must  in  this  case  have  travelled  between  three  hundred  and  four 
hundred  miles  in  six  hours,  which  shows  their  speed  to  be,  at  an 
average,  about  one  mile  in  a  minute.  A  velocity  such  as  this  would 
enable  one  of  these  birds,  were  it  so  inclined,  to  visit  the  European 
continent  in  less  than  three  days.  .  .  . 

The  multitudes  of  wild  pigeons  in  our  woods  are  astonishing. 
Indeed,  after  having  viewed  them  so  often,  and  under  so  many  cir- 
cumstances, I  even  now  feel  inclined  to  pause,  and  assure  myself 
that  what  I  am  going  to  relate  is  fact.  Yet  I  have  seen  it  all,  and 
that,  too,  in  the  company  of  persons  who,  like  myself,  were  struck 
with  amazement. 

In  the  autumn  of  1813  I  left  my  house  at  Henderson,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Ohio,  on  my  way  to  Louisville.  In  passing  over  the  Barrens, 
a  few  miles  beyond  Hardensburg,  I  observed  the  pigeons  flying  from 
north-east  to  south-west,  in  greater  numbers  than  I  thought  I  had 
ever  seen  them  before,  and  feeling  an  inclination  to  count  the  flocks  that 
might  pass  within  the  reach  of  my  eye  in  one  hour,  I  dismounted, 
seated  myself  on  an  eminence,  and  began  to  mark  with  my  pencil, 
making  a  dot  for  every*  flock  that  passed.  In  a  short  time,  find- 
ing the  task  which  I  had  undertaken  impracticable,  as  the  birds 
poured  in  in  countless  multitudes,  I  rose,  and  counting  the  dots 
then  put  down,  found  that  one  hundred  and  sixty-three  had  been 
made  in  twenty-one  minutes.  I  travelled  on,  and  still  met  more  the 
farther  I  proceeded.  The  air  was  literally  filled  with  pigeons  ;  the 
light  of  noonday  was  obscured  as  by  an  eclipse  ;  and  the  continued 
buzz  of  wings  had  a  tendency  to  lull  my  senses  to  repose. 

Whilst  waiting  for  dinner  at  Young's  inn,  at  the  confluence  of  Salt 
River  with  the  Ohio,  I  saw,  at  my  leisure,  immense  legions  still  going 
by,  with  a  front  reaching  far  beyond  the  Ohio  on  the  west,  and  the 
beech  wood  forests  directly  on  the  east  of  me.  Not  a  single  bird 
alighted,  for  not  a  nut  or  acorn  was  that  year  to  be  seen  in  the  neigh- 


7O  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

borhood.  They  consequently  flew  so  high,  that  different  trials  to 
reach  them  with  a  capital  rifle  proved  ineffectual ;  nor  did  the  reports 
disturb  them  in  the  least.  I  cannot  describe  to  you  the  extreme 
beauty  of  their  aerial  evolutions,  when  a  hawk  chanced  to  press  upon 
the  rear  of  a  flock.  At  once,  like  a  torrent,  and  with  a  noise  like 
thunder,  they  rushed  into  a  compact  mass,  pressing  upon  each  other 
towards  the  centre.  In  these  almost  solid  masses,  they  darted  for- 
ward in  undulating  and  angular  lines,  descended  and  swept  close 
over  the  earth  with  inconceivable  velocity,  mounted  perpendicularly 
so  as  to  resemble  a  vast  column,  and,  when  high,  were  seen  wheeling 
and  twisting  within  their  continued  lines,  which  then  resembled  the 
coils  of  a  gigantic  serpent. 

Before  sunset  I  reached  Louisville,  distant  from  Hardensburg 
fifty-five  miles.  The  pigeons  were  still  passing  in  undiminished 
numbers,  and  continued  to  do  so  for  three  days  in  succession.  The 
people  were  all  in  arms.  The  banks  of  the  Ohio  were  crowded  with 
men  and  boys,  incessantly  shooting  at  the  pilgrims,  which  there  flew 
lower  as  they  passed  the  river.  Multitudes  were  thus  destroyed. 
For  a  week  or  more,  the  population  fed  on  no  other  flesh  than  that 
of  pigeons,  and  talked  of  nothing  but  pigeons.  The  atmosphere, 
during  this  time,  was  strongly  impregnated  with  the  peculiar  odor 
which  emanates  from  the  species. 

As  soon  as  the  pigeons  discover  a  sufficiency  of  food  to  entice 
them  to  alight,  they  fly  round  in  circles,  reviewing  the  country  below. 
During  their  evolutions,  on  such  occasions,  the  dense  mass  which 
they  form  exhibits  a  beautiful  appearance,  as  it  changes  its  direction, 
now  displaying  a  glistening  sheet  of  azure,  when  the  backs  of  the 
birds  come  simultaneously  into  view,  and  anon  suddenly  presenting 
a  mass  of  rich,  deep  purple.  They  then  pass  lower,  over  the  woods, 
and  for  a  moment  are  lost  among  the  foliage,  but  again  emerge,  and 
are  seen  gliding  aloft.  They  now  alight ;  but  the  next  moment,  as  if 
suddenly  alarmed,  they  take  to  wing,  producing  by  the  flappings  of 
their  wings  a  noise  like  the  roar  of  distant  thunder,  and  sweep  through 
the  forests  to  see  if  danger  is  near.  Hunger,  however,  soon  brings 
them  to  the  ground.  When  alighted,  they  are  seen  industriously 
throwing  up  the  withered  leaves  in  quest  of  the  fallen  mast.  The 
rear  ranks  are  continually  rising,  passing  over  the  main  body,  and 
alighting  in  front,  in  such  rapid  succession,  that  the  whole  flock 
seems  still  on  wing.  The  quantity  of  ground  thus  swept  is  aston- 
ishing ;  and  so  completely  has  it  been  cleared,  that  the  gleaner  who 
might  follow  in  their  rear  would  find  his  labor  completely  lost 


JOHN   JAMES    AUDUBON.  7 1 

Whilst  feeding,  their  avidity  is  at  times  so  great,  that  in  attempting 
to  swallow  a  large  acorn  or  nut,  they  are  seen  gasping  for  a  long 
while,  as  if  in  the  agonies  of  suffocation. 

On  such  occasions,  when  the  woods  are  filled  with  these  pigeons, 
they  arc  killed  in  immense  numbers,  although  no  apparent  diminu- 
tion ensues.  About  the  middle  of  the  day,  after  their  repast  is 
finished,  they  settle  on  the  trees,  to  enjoy  rest  and  digest  their  food. 
On  the  ground  they  walk  with  ease,  as  well  as  on  the  branches,  fre- 
quently jerking  their  beautiful  tail,  and  moving  the  neck  backward 
and  forward  in  the  most  graceful  manner.  As  the  sun  begins  to 
sink  beneath  the  horizon,  they  depart  en  masse  for  the  roosting-place, 
which  not  unfrequently  is  hundreds  of  miles  distant,  as  has  been 
ascertained  by  persons  who  have  kept  an  account  of  their  arrivals 
and  departures. 

Let  us  now  inspect  their  place  of  nightly  rendezvous.  One  of 
these  curious  roosting-places,  on  the  banks  of  the  Green  River,  in 
Kentucky,  I  repeatedly  visited.  It  was,  as  is  always  the  case,  in  a 
portion  of  the  forest  where  the  trees  were  of  great  magnitude,  and 
where  there  was  little  underwood.  I  rode  through  it  upwards  of 
forty  miles,  and,  crossing  it  in  different  parts,  found  its  average 
breadth  to  be  rather  more  than  three  miles.  My  first  view  of  it  was 
about  a  fortnight  subsequent  to  the  period  when  they  had  made 
choice  of  it,  and  I  arrived  there  nearly  two  hours  before  sunset. 

Many  trees  two  feet  in  diameter,  I  observed,  were  broken  off  at 
no  great  distance  from  the  ground;  and  the  branches  of  many  of 
the  largest  and  tallest  had  given  way,  as  if  the  forest  had  been  swept 
by  a  tornado.  Everything  proved  to  me  that  the  number  of  birds 
resorting  to  this  part  of  the  forest  must  be  immense  beyond  concep- 
tion. As  the  period  of  their  arrival  approached,  their  foes  anxiously 
prepared  to  receive  them.  Some  were  furnished  with  iron  pots  con-' 
taining  sulphur,  others  with  torches  of  pine  knots,  many  with  poles, 
and  the  rest  with  guns.  The  sun  was  lost  to  our  view,  yet  not  a 
pigeon  had  arrived.  Everything  was  ready,  and  all  eyes  were  gazing 
on  the  clear  sky,  which  appeared  in  glimpses  amidst  the  tall  trees. 
Suddenly  there  burst  forth  a  general  cry  of,  "  Here  they  come  ! " 
The  noise  which  they  made,  though  yet  distant,  reminded  me  of  a 
hard  gale  at  sea  passing  through  the  rigging  of  a  close-reefed  vessel. 
As  the  birds  arrived  and  passed  over  me,  I  felt  a  current  of  air  that 
surprised  me.  Thousands  were  soon  knocked  down  by  the  pole-men. 
The  birds  continued  to  pour  in.  The  fires  were  lighted,  and  a  mag- 
nificent, as  well  as  wonderful  and  almost  terrifying,  sight  presented 


72        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

itself.  The  pigeons,  arriving  by  thousands,  alighted  everywhere, 
one  above  another,  until  solid  masses,  as  large  as  hogsheads,  were 
formed  on  the  branches  all  round.  Here  and  there  the  perches  gave 
way  under  the  weight  with  a  crash,  and  falling  to  the  ground,  de- 
stroyed hundreds  of  the  birds  beneath,  forcing  down  the  dense 
groups  with  which  every  stick  was  loaded.  It  was  a  scene  of  uproar 
and  confusion.  I  found  it  quite  useless  to  speak,  or  even  to  shout,  to 
those  persons  who  were  nearest  to  me.  Even  the  reports  of  the  guns 
were  seldom  heard,  and  I  was  made  aware  of  the  firing  only  by  see- 
ing the  shooters  reloading. 

The  uproar  continued  the  whole  night ;  and  as  I  was  anxious  to 
know  to  what  distance  the  sound  reached,  I  sent  off  a  man,  accus- 
tomed to  perambulate  the  forest,  who,  returning  two  hours  after- 
wards, informed  me  he  had  heard  it  distinctly  when  three  miles  dis- 
tant from  the  spot.  Towards  the  approach  of  day,  the  noise  in 
some  measure  subsided,  long  before  objects  were  distinguishable, 
the  pigeons  began  to  move  off  in  a  direction  quite  different  from 
that  in  which  they  had  arrived  the  evening  before,  and  at  sunrise  all 
that  were  able  to  fly  had  disappeared.  The  howlings  of  the  wolves 
now  reached  our  ears,  and  the  foxes,  lynxes,  cougars,  bears,  rac- 
coons, opossums,  and  polecats  were  seen  sneaking  off,  whilst  eagles, 
and  hawks  of  different  species,  accompanied  by  a  crowd  of  vultures, 
came  to  supplant  them,  and  enjoy  their  share  of  the  spoil. 


WILLIAM   ELLERY   CHANNING. 

William  Ellery  Channing  was  born  at  Newport,  R.  L,  April  7,  1780.  He  was  pre- 
pared for  college  under  the  tuition  of  his  uncle,  the  Rev.  Henry  Channing,  at  New  London, 
Conn.,  and  entered  Harvard  in  1794.  After  graduation  he  spent  some  time  as  a  tutor  in 
a  private  family  in  Richmond,  Va.  He  studied  theology  at  Cambridge,  and  subsequent- 
ly, in  1803,  became  pastor  of  the  Federal  Street  Church,  in  Boston.  Not  long  after  oc- 
curred the  separation  between  the  two  wings  of  the  Congregational  church,  and  Channing 
became  the  leader  of  the  Unitarian  party.  His  fame  as  a  spiritually-minded  and  powerful 
preacher  constantly  increased,  and  the  sphere  of  his  influence  widened.  He  made  a  tour  of 
Europe  in  1822,  and  returned  refreshed  and  strengthened  to  his  parochial  duties.  He  first 
became  widely  known  as  a  writer  by  his  admirable  critical  articles  on  Napoleon,  Milton,  and 
Fenelon,  published  in  the  Christian  Examiner.  The  appearance  of  these  essays  marked  a 
new  era  in  American  letters.  No  periodical  in  the  country  had,  up  to  that  time,  contained 
such  elaborate  articles,  clothed  in  a  style  of  such  elegant  simplicity,  animated  by  such  high 
moral  principles,  and  evincing  such  imaginative  power  and  cultivated  taste.  They  took 
rank  at  once  with  the  best  productions  of  English  thought,  and  are  to-day  unsurpassed  in 
many  respects,  except  by  the  weightier  judgments  of  Carlyle.  His  religious  doctrines 
led  him  to  espouse  with  ardor  the  anti-slavery  cause,  to  protest  against  the  settlement  of 
international  disputes  by  appeals  to  arms,  and  to  strive  for  the  education  and  elevation  of 


WILLIAM   ELLERY    CHANNING.  73 

the  laboring  classes.  From  boyhood  his  sense  of  right  and  duty  was  strong,  and  his 
fidelity  to  his  inward  convictions  unwavering.  He  was  not  renowned  as  a  logician  or  as 
a  thinker  upon  abstract  subjects  ;  but  his  enthusiasm,  purity  of  character,  and  deep  nat- 
ural piety  gave  him  an  ascendency  over  his  hearers  such  as  few  preachers  have  possessed. 

In  his  youth  he  was  a  passionate  admirer  of  Shakespeare  ;  in  maturity  his  love  for  Milton 
increased  ;  in  later  years  he  found  more  pleasure  in  the  philosophic  poetry  of  Wordsworth. 
By  the  succession  of  these  preferences  the  drift  of  his  mind  is  indicated. 

Miss  Sedgwick,  who  met  him  in  1826,  says,  "There  is  a  superior  light  in  his  mind  that 
sheds  a  pure,  bright  gleam  on  everything  that  comes  from  it.  He  talks  freely  upon  common 
topics,  but  they  seem  no  longer  to  be  common  topics  when  he  speaks  of  them.  There  is  the 
influence  of  the  sanctuary,  the  holy  place,  about  him." 

He  died  at  Bennington,  Vt.,  of  a  typhus  fever,  contracted  while  making  an  excursion, 
October  2,  1842.  His  works  are  published  in  six  volumes,  i2mo.  His  biography  was  written 
by  his  nephew,  Rev.  William  H.  Channing,  published  in  1848. 

[From  the  Essay  on  Milton.] 

MILTON'S  fame  rests  chiefly  on  his  poetry,  and  to  this  we  naturally 
give  our  first  attention.  By  those  who  are  accustomed  to  speak  of 
poetry  as  light  reading,  Milton's  eminence  in  this  sphere  may  be 
considered  only  as  giving  him  a  high  rank  among  the  contributors 
to  public  amusement.  Not  so  thought  Milton.  Of  all  God's  gifts 
of  intellect,  he  esteemed  poetical  genius  the  most  transcendent.  He 
esteemed  it  in  himself  as  a  kind  of  inspiration,  and  wrote  his  great 
works  with  something  of  the  conscious  dignity  of  a  prophet.  We 
agree  with  Milton  in  his  estimate  of  poetry.  It  seems  to  us  the 
divinest  of  all  arts  ;  for  it  is  the  breathing  or  expression  of  that 
principle  or  sentiment  which  is  deepest  and  sublimest  in  human 
nature  ;  we  mean,  of  that  thirst  or  aspiration,  to  which  no  mind  is 
wholly  a  stranger,  for  something  purer  and  lovelier,  something  more 
powerful,  lofty,  and  thrilling,  than  ordinary  and  real  life  affords.  No 
doctrine  is  more  common  among  Christians  than  that  of  man's  im- 
mortality ;  but  it  is  not  so  generally  understood  that  the  germs  or 
principles  of  his  whole  future  being  are  now  wrapped  up  in  his  soul, 
as  the  rudiments  of  the  future  plant  in  the  seed.  As  a  necessary 
result  of  this  constitution,  the  soul,  possessed  and  moved  by  these 
mighty  though  infant  energies,  is  perpetually  stretching  beyond  what 
is  present  and  visible,  struggling  against  the  bounds  of  its  earthly 
prison-house,  and  seeking  relief  and  joy  in  imaginings  of  unseen  and 
ideal  being.  This  view  of  our  nature,  which  has  never  been  fully 
developed,  and  which  goes  farther  towards  explaining  the  contradic- 
tions of  human  life  than  all  others,  carries  us  to  the  very  foundation 
and  sources  of  poetry.  He  who  cannot  interpret  by  his  own  con- 
sciousness what  we  now  have  said,  wants  the  true  key  to  works  of 
genius.  He  has  not  penetrated  those  secret  recesses  of  the  soul 
where  poetry  is  born  and  nourished,  and  inhales  immortal  vigor,  and 


74        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

wings  herself  for  her  heavenward  flight.  In  an  intellectual  nature, 
framed  for  progress  and  for  higher  modes  of  being,  there  must  be 
creative  energies,  powers  of  original  and  ever-growing  thought ;  and 
poetry  is  the  form  in  which  these  energies  are  chiefly  manifested. 
It  is  the  glorious  prerogative  of  this  art,  that  it  "makes  all  things 
new  "  for  the  gratification  of  a  divine  instinct.  It  indeed  finds  its 
elements  in  what  it  actually  sees  and  experiences,  in  the  worlds  of 
matter  and  mind  ;  but  it  combines  and  blends  these  into  new  forms 
and  according  to  new  affinities  ;  breaks  down,  if  we  may  so  say,  the 
distinctions  and  bounds  of  nature  ;  imparts  to  material  objects  life, 
and  sentiment,  and  emotion,  and  invests  the  mind  with  the  powers 
and  splendors  of  the  outward  creation  ;  describes  the  surrounding 
universe  in  the  colors  which  the  passions  throw  over  it,  and  depicts 
the  soul  in  those  modes  of  repose  or  agitation,  of  tenderness  or  sub- 
lime emotion,  which  manifest  its  thirst  for  a  more  powerful  and  joy- 
ful existence.  To  a  man  of  a  literal  and  prosaic  character,  the  mind 
may  seem  lawless  in  these  workings  ;  but  it  observes  higher  laws 
than  it  transgresses  — the  laws  of  the  immortal  intellect ;  it  is  trying 
and  developing  its  best  faculties  ;  and  in  the  objects  which  it  de- 
scribes, or  in  the  emotions  which  it  awakens,  anticipates  those  states 
of  progressive  power,  splendor,  beauty,  and  happiness,  for  which  it 
was  created. 

We  accordingly  believe  that  poetry,  far  from  injuring  society,  is 
£>ne  of  the  great  instruments  of  its  refinement  and  exaltation.  It 
lifts  the  mind  above  ordinary  life,  gives  it  a  respite  from  depressing 
cares,  and  awakens  the  consciousness  of  its  affinity  with  what  is 
pure  and  noble.  In  its  legitimate  and  highest  efforts,  it  has  the 
same  tendency  and  aim  with  Christianity  ;  that  is,  to  spiritualize  our 
nature.  True,  poetry  has  been  made  the  instrument  of  vice,  the 
pander  of  bad  passions  ;  but,  when  genius  thus  stoops,  it  dims  its 
fires,  and  parts  with  much  of  its  power  ;  and  even  when  poetry  is 
enslaved  to  licentiousness  or  misanthropy,  she  cannot  wholly  forget 
her  true  vocation.  Strains  of  pure  feeling,  touches  of  tenderness, 
images  of  innocent  happiness,  sympathies  with  suffering  virtue, 
bursts  of  scorn  or  indignation  at  the  hollowness  of  the  world,  pas- 
sages true  to  our  moral  nature,  often  escape  in  an  immoral  work,  and 
show  us  how  hard  it  is  for  a  gifted  spirit  to  divorce  itself  wholly  from 
what  is  good.  Poetry  has  a  natural  alliance  with  our  best  affections. 
It  delights  in  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  the  outward  creation  and 
of  the  soul.  It  indeed  portrays,  with  terrible  energy,  the  excesses 
of  the  passions  ;  but  they  are  passions  which  show  a  mighty  nature, 


WILLIAM    ELLERY    CHANNING.  75 

which  are  full  of  power,  which  command  awe,  and  excite  a  deep 
though  shuddering  sympathy.  Its  great  tendency  and  purpose  is,  to 
carry  the  mind  beyond  and  above  the  beaten,  dusty,  weary  walks  of 
ordinary  life,  to  lift  it  into  a  purer  element,  and  to  breathe  into  it 
more  profound  and  generous  emotion.  It  reveals  to  us  the  loveli- 
ness of  nature,  brings  back  the  freshness  of  early  feeling,  revives 
the  relish  of  simple  pleasures,  keeps  unquenched  the  enthusiasm 
which  warmed  the  spring-time  of  our  being,  refines  youthful  love, 
strengthens  our  interest  in  human  nature  by  vivid  delineations  of  its 
tenderest  and  loftiest  feelings,  spreads  our  sympathies  over  all 
classes  of  society,  knits  us  by  new  ties  with  universal  being,  and, 
through  the  brightness  of  its  prophetic  visions,  helps  faith  to  lay 
hold  on  the  future  life.^ 

We  are  aware  that  it  is  objected  to  poetry  that  it  gives  wrong 
views  and  excites  false  expectations  of  life,  peoples  the  mind  with 
shadows  and  illusions,  and  builds  up  imagination  on  the  ruins  of 
wisdom.  That  there  is  a  wisdom  against  which  poetry  wars,  —  the 
wisdom  of  the  senses,  which  makes  physical  comfort  and  gratifica- 
tion the  supreme  good,  and  wealth  the  chief  interest  of  life,  —  we  do 
not  deny  ;  nor  do  we  deem  it  the  least  service  which  poetry  renders 
to  mankind,  that  it  redeems  them  from  the  thraldom  of  this  earth- 
born  prudence.  But,  passing  over  this  topic,  we  would  observe  that 
the  complaint  against  poetry,  as  abounding  in  illusion  and  deception, 
is  in  the  main  groundless.  In  many  poems  there  is  more  of  truth 
than  in  many  histories  and  philosophic  theories.  The  fictions  of 
genius  are  often  the  vehicles  of  the  sublimest  verities,  and  its 
flashes  often  open  new  regions  of  thought,  and  throw  new  light  on 
the  mysteries  of  our  being.  In  poetry,  when  the  letter  is  falsehood, 
the  spirit  is  often  profoundest  wisdom.  And,  if  truth  thus  dwells  in 
the  boldest  fictions  of  the  poet,  much  more  may  it  be  expected  in  his 
delineations  of  life  ;  for  the  present  life,  which  is  the  first  stage  of 
the  immortal  mind,  abounds  in  the  materials  of  poetry,  and  it  is  the 
high  office  of  the  bard  to  detect  this  divine  element  among  the 
grosser  labors  and  pleasures  of  our  earthly  being.  The  present  life 
is  not  wholly  prosaic,  precise,  tame,  and  finite.  To  the  gifted  eye  it 
abounds  in  the  poetic.  The  affections,  which  spread  beyond  our- 
selves and  stretch  far  into  futurity  ;  the  workings  of  mighty  passions, 
which  seem  to  arm  the  soul  with  an  almost  superhuman  energy ;  the 
innocent  and  irrepressible  joy  of  infancy  ;  the  bloom,  and  buoyancy, 
and  dazzling  hopes  of  youth  ;  the  throbbings  of  the  heart,  when  it  first 
wakes  to  love,  and  dreams  of  a  happiness  too  vast  for  earth  ;  woman, 


76        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

with  her  beauty,  and  grace,  and  gentleness,  and  fulness  of  feeling,  and 
depth  of  affection,  and  blushes  of  purity,  and  the  tones  and  looks 
which  only  a  mother's  heart  can  inspire,  —  these  are  all  poetical.  It 
is  not  true  that  the  poet  paints  a  life  which  does  not  exist.  He  only  ex- 
tracts and  concentrates,  as  it  were,  life's  ethereal  essence,  arrests  and 
condenses  its  volatile  fragrance,  brings  together  its  scattered  beauties, 
and  prolongs  its  more  refined  but  evanescent  joys.  And  in  this  he 
does  well ;  for  it  is  good  to  feel  that  life  is  not  wholly  usurped  by 
cares  for  subsistence  and  physical  gratifications,  but  admits,  in 
measures  which  may  be  indefinitely  enlarged,  sentiments  and  de- 
lights worthy  of  a  higher  being.  This  power  of  poetry  to  refine  our 
views  of  life  and  happiness,  is  more  and  more  needed  as  society 
advances.  It  is  needed  to  withstand  the  encroachments  of  heartless 
and  artificial  manners,  which  make  civilization  so  tame  and  un- 
interesting. It  is  needed  to  counteract  the  tendency  of  physical 
science,  which,  being  now  sought,  not  as  formerly,  for  intellectual 
gratification,  but  for  multiplying  bodily  comforts,  requires  a  new 
development  of  imagination,  taste,  and  poetry,  to  preserve  men  from 
sinking  into  an  earthly,  material,  Epicurean  life.  .  .  . 

We  should  not  fulfil  our  duty  were  we  not  to  say  one  word  on 
what  has  been  justly  celebrated  —  the  harmony  of  Milton's  versifica- 
tion. His  numbers  have  the  prime  charm  of  expressiveness.  They 
vary  with,  and  answer  to,  the  depth,  or  tenderness,  or  sublimity  of 
his  conceptions,  and  hold  intimate  alliance  with  the  soul.  Like 
Michael  Angelo,  in  whose  hands  the  marble  was  said  to  be  flexible, 
he  bends  our  language,  which  foreigners  reproach  with  hardness, 
into  whatever  forms  the  subject  demands.  Ail  the  treasures  of 
sweet  and  solemn  sound  are  at  his  command.  Words,  harsh  and 
discordant  in  the  writings  of  less  gifted  men,  flow  through  his  poetry 
in  a  full  stream  of  harmony.  This  power  over  language  is  not  to  be 
ascribed  to  Milton's  musical  ear.  It  belongs  to  the  soul.  It  is  a 
gift  or  exercise  of  genius,  which  has  power  to  impress  itself  on  what- 
ever it  touches,  and  finds  or  frames,  in  sounds,  motions,  and  material 
forms,  correspondences  and  harmonies  with  its  own  fervid  thoughts 
and  feelings. 

We  close  our  remarks  on  Milton's  poetry  with  observing,  that  it  is 
characterized  by  seriousness.  Great  and  various  as  are  its  merits, 
it  does  not  discover  all  the  variety  of  genius  which  we  find  in 
Shakespeare,  whose  imagination  revelled  equally  in  regions  of  mirth, 
beauty,  and  terror,  now  evoking  spectres,  now  sporting  with  fairies, 
and  now  "  ascending  the  highest  heaven  of  invention."  Milton  was 


WILLIAM    ELLERY    CHANNING.  77 

cast  on  times  too  solemn  and  eventful,  was  called  to  take  part  in 
transactions  too  perilous,  and  had  too  perpetual  need  of  the  presence 
of  high  thoughts  and  motives,  to  indulge  himself  in  light  and  gay 
creations,  even  had  his  genius  been  more  flexible  and  sportive.  But 
Milton's  poetry,  though  habitually  serious,  is  always  healthful,  and 
bright,  and  vigorous.  It  has  no  gloom.  He  took  no  pleasure  in 
drawing  dark  pictures  of  life  ;  for  he  knew  by  experience  that  there 
is  a  power  in  the  soul  to  transmute  calamity  into  an  occasion  and 
nutriment  of  moral  power  and  triumphant  virtue.  We  find  nowhere 
in  his  writings  that  whining  sensibility  and  exaggeration  of  morbid 
feeling  which  makes  so  much  of  modern  poetry  effeminating.  If  he 
is  not  gay,  he  is  not  spirit-broken.  His  L' Allegro  proves  that  he 
understood  thoroughly  the  bright  and  joyous  aspects  of  nature  ;  and 
in  his  Penseroso,  where  he  was  tempted  to  accumulate  images  of 
gloom,  we  learn  that  the  saddest  views  which  he  took  of  creation  are 
such  as  inspire  only  pensive  musing  or  lofty  contemplation.  .  .  . 
It  is  objected  to  his  prose  writings,  that  the  style  is  difficult 
and  obscure,  abounding  in  involutions,  transpositions,  and  Latin- 
isms  ;  that  his  protracted  sentences  exhaust  and  weary  the  mind, 
and  too  often  yield  it  no  better  recompense  than  confused  and  indis- 
tinct perceptions.  We  mean  not  to  deny  that  these  charges  have 
some  grounds  ;  but  they  seem  to  us  much  exaggerated  ;  and,  when 
we  consider  that  the  difficulties  of  Milton's  style  have  almost  sealed 
up  his  prose  writings,  we  cannot  but  lament  the  fastidiousness  and 
effeminacy  of  modern  readers.  We  know  that  simplicity  and  per- 
spicuity are  important  qualities  of  style  ;  but  there  are  vastly  nobler 
and  more  important  ones,  such  as  energy  and  richness,  and  in  these 
Milton  is  not  surpassed.  The  best  style  is  not  that  which  puts  the 
reader  most  easily  and  in  the  shortest  time  in  possession  of  a 
writer's  naked  thoughts,  but  that  which  is  the  truest  image  of  a 
great  intellect,  which  conveys  fully  and  carries  farthest  into  other 
souls  the  conceptions  and  feelings  of  a  profound  and  lofty  spirit.  To 
be  universally  intelligible  is  not  the  highest  merit.  A  great  mind 
cannot,  without  injurious  constraint,  shrink  itself  to  the  grasp  of 
common  passive  readers.  Its  natural  movement  is  free,  bold,  and 
majestic,  and  it  ought  not  to  be  required  to  part  with  these  at- 
tributes, that  the  multitude  may  keep  pace  with  it.  A  full  mind  will 
naturally  overflow  in  long  sentences,  and,  in  the  moment  of  inspira- 
tion, when  thick-coming  thoughts  and  images  crowd  upon  it,  will 
often  pour  them  forth  in  a  splendid  confusion,  dazzling  to  common 
readers,  but  kindling  to  congenial  spirits.  There  are  writings  which 


78  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

are  clear  through  their  shallowness.  We  must  not  expect  in  the 
ocean  the  transparency  of  the  calm  inland  stream.  For  ourselves, 
we  love  what  is  called  easy  reading  perhaps  too  well,  especially  in 
our  hours  of  relaxation ;  but  we  love,  too,  to  have  our  faculties 
tasked  by  master  spirits.  We  delight  in  long  sentences,  in  which  a 
great  truth,  instead  of  being  broken  up  into  numerous  periods,  is 
spread  out  in  its  full  proportions,  is  irradiated  with  variety  of  illustra- 
tion and  imagery,  is  set  forth  in  a  splendid  affluence  of  language,  and 
flows  like  a  full  stream,  with  a  majestic  harmony  which  fills  at  once 
the  ear  and  the  soul.  Such  sentences  are  -worthy  and  noble  man- 
ifestations of  a  great  and  far-looking  mind,  which  grasps  at  once  vast 
fields  of  thought,  just  as  the  natural  eye  takes  in,  at  a  moment,  wide 
prospects  of  grandeur  and  beauty.  We  would  not,  indeed,  have  all 
compositions  of  this  character.  Let  abundant  provision  be  made  for 
the  common  intellect.  Let  such  writers  as  Addison  —  an  honored 
name  —  "  bring  down  philosophy  from  heaven  to  earth."  But  let 
inspired  genius  fulfil  its  higher  function  of  lifting  the  prepared  mind 
from  earth  to  heaven.  Impose  upon  it  no  strict  laws,  for  it  is  its 
own  best  law.  Let  it  speak  in  its  own  language,  in  tones  which  suit 
its  own  ear.  Let  it  not  lay  aside  its  natural  port,  or  dwarf  itself  that 
it  may  be  comprehended  by  the  surrounding  multitude.  If  not 
understood  and  relished  now,  let  it  place  a  generous  confidence  in 
other  ages,  and  utter  oracles  which  futurity  will  expound. 


DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

Daniel  Webster  was  born  in  Salisbury,  N.  H.,  January  18,  1782.  His  early  education 
was  obtained  in  district  schools,  under  great  difficulties.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  was 
sent  to  Phillips  Academy,  in  Exeter,  N.  H.,  but  remained  only  a  year,  on  account  of  the 
poverty  of  the  family.  He  pursued  his  studies  under  the  care  of  a  clergyman  in  a  neighbor- 
ing town,  and  entered  Dartmouth  College  in  1797.  He  finished  his  course  with  credit,  hav- 
ing acquired  a  tolerable  knowledge  of  the  classical  languages,  as  well  as  of  history  and  Eng- 
lish literature.  He  was  the  foremost  man  of  his  class,  though  not  the  highest  in  academic 
rank.  He  was  preceptor  of  an  academy  in  Fryeburg,  Me.,  for  a  short  time,  and  then  com- 
menced the  study  of  law  in  his  native  town.  He  completed  his  preliminary  legal  education 
in  the  office  of  Christopher  Gore,  in  Boston,  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1805,  and,  return- 
ing to  New  Hampshire,  commenced  practice  in  Boscawen,  and  afterwards  in  Portsmouth. 
He  took  a  prominent  place  in  his  profession  at  once,  and  in  1812  was  elected  a  member  of 
Congress.  In  1816  he  declined  a  re-election,  and  removed  to  Boston.  For  seven  years  he 
devoted  himself  to  his  profession,  and  soon  established  his  reputation  as  the  ablest  advocate 
in  the  United  States.  It  was  in  this  period  that  he  distinguished  himself  in  the  famous  case, 
of  Dartmouth  College  against  the  usurpations  of  the  New  Hampshire  legislature.  Nor  was 
his  intellectual  activity  confined  to  legal  discussions :  the  two  hundredth  anniversary  of  the 
landing  of  the  Pilgrims  (1820)  gave  him  an  opportunity  such  as  few  orators  have  had,  and 


DANIEL    WEBSTER.  79 

his  genius  illustrated  the  themes  it  suggested  in  sentences  that  are  as  immortal  as  the 
memory  of  the  event. 

In  1822  he  was  elected  a  representative  in  Congress  from  the  Boston  district,  in  which 
place  he  remained  until,  in  1828,  he  was  chosen  a  senator.  He  continued  to  represent  the 
state  in  the  Senate  for  twelve  years,  when  he  was  appointed  secretary  of  state  by  President 
Harrison.  During  these  eighteen  years  of  public  life  his  fame  was  steadily  rising,  spread- 
ing, deepening,  until  he  was  no  longer  the  favorite  of  Boston  merely,  but  was  everywhere 
acknowledged  the  foremost  of  constitutional  lawyers  and  of  parliamentary  debaters,  and 
without  a  peer  in  the  higher  fields  of  classic  and  patriotic  oratory.  The  oration  at  the  lay- 
ing of  the  corner-stone  of  Bunker  Hill  Monument  in  1825,  the  eulogy  upon  Adams  and  Jef- 
ferson in  1826,  the  speech  upon  the  trial  of  the  murderers  of  Stephen  White,  and  the  reply  to 
Hayne,  of  South  Carolina,  in  the  debate  upon  "  nullification,"  in  1830,  are  beyond  parallel 
in  this  century.  Eloquence,  we  are  told,  is  no  longer  fashionable  in  England ;  but  it  has 
been  nearly  a  hundred  years  since  that  country  has  witnessed  such  a  magnificent  display 
from  any  of  its  public  men  as  this  generation  remembers  in  the  many  great  efforts  of 
Webster. 

In  1845  he  returned  to  the  Senate,  and  remained  in  that  position  until  1850,  when  he  was 
appointed  secretary  of  state  by  President  Fillmore.  He  resigned  his  office  in  the  summer 
of  1852,  on  account  of  failing  health,  and  retired  to  his  country-seat  in  Marshfield,  where  he 
died  October  24  of  the  same  year. 

Mr.  Webster  and  his  friends  had  considered,  with  some  reason,  that  his  talents  and  ser- 
vices entitled  him  to  the  nomination  of  his  party  for  the  presidency.  His  claims  were 
pressed  strongly  at  the  national  convention  of  the  Whig  party,  in  1848,  but  he  was  set  aside 
that  his  party  might  avail  itself  of  the  military  reputation  of  General  Taylor.  In  1850  he 
made  a  speech  in  favor  of  the  Compromise  measures,  including  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law, 
which  had  the  effect  of  alienating  many  of  his  warmest  friends  throughout  the  northern 
states,  and  was  the  commencement  of  a  fierce  controversy  that  embittered  the  remainder 
of  his  life.  In  1852  the  Whig  National  Convention  again  set  him  aside,  and  nominated 
General  Scott  for  president  :  and  it  was  noticeable  that  the  members  from  the  southern 
states,  for  whose  interests  Mi.  Webster  had  sacrificed  so  much,  hardly  gave  him  the  poor 
compliment  of  a  single  vote.  It  did  not  need  this  instance,  however,  to  assure  us  that  there 
is  no  sentiment  of  gratitude  in  politics. 

The  intellect  of  Mr.  Webster  had  a  firm  basis  of  common  sense.  His  grasp  of  facts,  and 
his  power  of  arranging  them  in  argument,  was  prodigious.  In  abstract  reasoning  he  was 
not  so  strong  ;  it  was  when  his  feet  were  planted  upon  the  earth  that  he  showed  his  power. 
His  imagination  re-enforced  and  illuminated  his  reason  ;  his  conceptions  and  his  figurative 
illustrations  often  approached  the  sublime  ;  but  he  had  little  of  the  fancy  and  few  of  the 
graces  that  adorn  the  decorous  speech  of  an  inferior  order  of  men.  His  style  was  the  nat- 
ural expression  of  his  great  thoughts  ;  it  was  based  on  good  models,  but  it  was  imitated  from 
no  master,  and  it  is  itself  beyond  the  reach  of  imitation.  No  rhetorician  could  forge  a  char- 
acteristic Websterian  sentence,  any  more  than  he  could  palm  off  a  fabricated  Shakspearian 
line.  The  conceptions  of  the  orator,  like  those  of  the  poet,  are  cast  into  their  enduring 
forms  while  red  hot.  His  delivery  was  in  perfect  keeping  with  what  he  had  to  utter  —  full 
of  majesty,  and  fitted  less  to  please  than  to  command.  His  manner  had  a  wonderful  im- 
pressiveness,  that  reminded  us  of  the  saying  (attributed  to  Emerson)  that  it  makes  a  vast 
difference  in  the  force  of  a  sentence  whether  there  is  a  man  behind  it  or  no. 
•  This  man,  so  highly  endowed,  sent  into  the  world  with  such  a  form,  such  a  face,  such  a 
presence,  would  have  appeared  to  be  the  consummate  flowering  of  our  race  ;  and  we  must 
lament  that  he  could  not  see,  as  we  now  see,  how  exalted  was  his  position  as  a  man  of 
genius,  and  how  little  lustre  his  name  could  receive  from  any  official  title. 

In  the  light  of  the  tremendous  events  of  the  last  ten  years,  the  history  of  the  attempts  at 
conciliation,  previous  to  1860,  is  full  of  instruction.  The  topic  belongs  to  the  historian 
and  the  moralist,  rather  than  to  the  literary  critic  ;  but  some  mention  of  it  could  not  be 
omitted  in  any  fair  view  of  Webster's  career  as  a  public  man.  Let  us  be  thankful  for  the 


8O        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

grand  works  he  has  left,  and  rejoice  that,  in  spite  of  some  errors,  cruelly  expiated,  we  find 
in  his  character  so  much  that  is  worthy  of  admiration.  His  works  were  published,  with  a 
memoir  by  Edward  Everett,  in  six  volumes.  Two  volumes  of  his  correspondence  have 
been  published  since  ;  also  a  biography,  in  one  volume,  by  George  T.  Curtis. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   SURVIVORS   OF    THE    BATTLE   OF   BUNKER    HILL. 

VENERABLE  men  :  You  have  come  down  to  us  from  a  former 
generation.  Heaven  has  bounteously  lengthened  out  your  lives 
that  you  might  behold  this  joyous  day.  You  are  now  where  you 
stood  fifty  years  ago  this  very  hour,  with  your  brothers  and  your 
neighbors,  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  the  strife  of  your  country.  Be- 
hold how  altered  !  The  same  heavens  are  indeed  over  your  heads  ; 
the  same  ocean  rolls  at  your  feet ;  but  all  else,  how  changed  !  You 
hear  now  no  roar  of  hostile  cannon  ;  you  see  no  mixed  volumes  of 
smoke  and  flame  rising  from  burning  Charlestown.  The  ground 
strewed  with  the  dead  and  the  dying  ;  the  impetuous  charge ;  the 
steady  and  successful  repulse ;  the  loud  call  to  repeated  assault ; 
the  summoning  of  all  that  is  manly  to  repeated  resistance  ;  a  thou- 
sand bosoms  freely  and  fearlessly  bared  in  an  instant  to  whatever 
of  terror  there  may  be  in  war  and  death,  — all  these  you  have  wit- 
nessed, but  you  witness  them  no  more.  All  is  peace.  The  heights 
of  yonder  metropolis,  its  towers  and  roofs,  which  you  then  saw  filled 
with  wives,  and  children,  and  countrymen  in  distress  and  terror,  and 
looking  with  unutterable  emotions  for  the  issue  of  the  combat,  have 
presented  you  to-day  with  the  sight  of  its  whole  happy  population, 
come  out  to  welcome  and  greet  you  with  a  universal  jubilee.  Yon- 
der proud  ships,  by  a  felicity  of  position  appropriately  lying  at  the 
foot  of  this  mount,  and  seeming  fondly  to  cling  around  it,  are  not 
means  of  annoyance  to  you,  but  your  country's  own  means  of  dis- 
tinction and  defence.  All  is  peace  ;  and  God  has  granted  you  this 
sight  of  your  country's  happiness  ere  you  slumber  in  the  grave  for- 
ever. He  has  allowed  you  to  behold  and  to  partake  the  reward  of 
your  patriotic  toils,  and  he  has  allowed  us,  your  sons  and  country- 
men, to  meet  you  here,  and,  in  the  name  of  the  present  generation, 
in  the  name  of  your  country,  in  the  name  of  liberty,  to  thank  you. 

But,  alas  !  you  are  not  all  here.  Time  and  the  sword  have  thinned' 
your  ranks.  Prescott,  Putnam,  Stark,  Brooks,  Read,  Pomeroy, 
Bridge  !  our  eyes  seek  for  you  in  vain  amidst  this  broken  band. 
You  are  gathered  to  your  fathers,  and  live  only  to  your  country  in 
her  grateful  remembrance,  and  your  own  bright  example.  But  let 
us  not  too  much  grieve  that  you  have  met  the  common  fate  of  men. 


DANIEL    WEBSTER.  8 1 

You  lived  &t  teast  long  enough  to  know  that  your  work  had  been 
nobly  and  successfully  accomplished.  You  lived  to  see  your  coun- 
try's independence  established,  and  to  sheathe  your  swords  from 
war.  On  the  light  of  liberty  you  saw  arise  the  light  of  peace,  like 

"  another  morn, 
Risen  on  mid-noon,"  — 

and  tlie  sky  on  which  you  closed  your  eyes  was  cloudless. 

But,  ah  !  him,  the  first  great  martyr  in  this  great  cause ;  him, 
the  premature  victim  of  his  own  self-devoting  heart ;  him,  the  head 
of  our  civil  councils,  and  the  destined  leader  of  our  military  bands  ; 
whom  nothing  brought  hither  but  the  unquenchable  fire  of  his  own 
spirit ;  him,  cut  off  by  Providence  in  the  hour  of  overwhelming 
anxiety  and  thick  gloom  ;  falling  ere  he  saw  the  star  of  his  country 
rise  ;  pouring  out  his  generous  blood  like  water  before  he  knew 
whether  it  would  fertilize  a  land  of  freedom  or  of  bondage.  How 
shall  I  struggle  with  the  emotions  that  stifle  the  utterance  of  thy 
name.  Our  poor  work  may  perish,  but  thine  shall  endure.  This 
monument  may  moulder  away ;  the  solid  ground  it  rests  upon  may 
sink  down  to  a  level  with  the  sea ;  but  thy  memory  shall  not  fail. 
Wheresoever  among  men  a  heart  shall  be  found  that  beats  to  the 
transports  of  patriotism  and  liberty,  its  aspirations  shall  be  to  claim 
kindred  with  thy  spirit.  .  .  . 

Veterans  !  you  are  the  remnant  of  many  a  well-fought  field. 
You  bring  with  you  marks  of  honor  from  Trenton  and  Monmouth, 
from  Yorktown,  Camclen,  Bennington,  and  Saratoga.  Veterans  of 
half  a  century  !  when,  in  your  youthful  days,  you  put  everything  at 
hazard  in  your  country's  cause,  good  as  that  cause  was,  and  san- 
guine as  youth  is,  still  your  fondest  hopes  did  not  stretch  onward  to 
an  hour  like  this.  At  a  period  to  which  you  could  not  reasonably 
hope  to  arrive,  at  a  moment  of  national  prosperity  such  as  you  could 
never  have  foreseen,  you  are  now  met  here  to  enjoy  the  fellowship 
of  old  soldiers,  and  to  receive  the  overflowings  of  a  universal 
gratitude. 

But  your  agitated  countenances  and  your  heaving  breasts  inform 
me  that  even  this  is  not  an  unmixed  joy.  I  perceive  that  a  tumult 
of  contending  feelings  rushes  upon  you.  The  images  of  the  dead, 
as  well  as  the  persons  of  the  living,  throng  to  your  embraces.  The 
scene  overwhelms  you,  and  I  turn  from  it.  May  the  Father  of  all 
mercies  smile  upon  your  declining  years  and  bless  them  ;  and  when 
you  shall  here  have  exchanged  your  embraces,  when  you  shall  once 
6 


82  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

more  have  pressed  the  hands  which  have  been  so  often  extended  to 
give  succor  in  adversity  or  grasped  in  the  exultation  of  victory, 
then  look  abroad  into  this  lovely  land,  which  your  young  valor  de- 
fended, and  mark  the  happiness  with  which  it  is  filled ;  yea,  look 
abroad  into  the  whole  earth,  and  see  what  a  name  you  have  contrib- 
uted to  give  to  your  country,  and  what  a  praise  you  have  added  to 
freedom,  and  then  rejoice  in  the  sympathy  and  gratitude  which  beam 
upon  your  last  days  from  the  improved  condition  of  mankind. 


CONCLUSION  OF  THE  ORATION   AT   PLYMOUTH    UPON   THE  ANNIVER- 
SARY  OF   THE   LANDING   OF   THE   PILGRIMS,    1820. 

THE  hours  of  this  day  are  rapidly  flying,  and  this  occasion  will 
soon  be  past.  Neither  we  nor  our  children  can  expect  to  behold  its 
return.  They  are  in  the  distant  regions  of  futurity  ;  they  exist  only 
in  the  all-creating  power  of  God.  who  shall  stand  here,  a  hundred 
years  hence,  to  trace,  through  us,  their  descent  from  the  Pilgrims, 
and  to  survey,  as  we  have  now  surveyed,  the  progress  of  their  coun- 
try during  the  lapse  of  a  century.  We  would  anticipate  their  con- 
currence with  us  in  our  sentiments  of  deep  regard  for  our  common 
ancestors.  We  would  anticipate  and  partake  the  pleasure  with 
which  they  will  then  recount  the  steps  of  New  England's  advance- 
ment. On  the  morning  of  that  day,  although  it  will  not  disturb  us 
in  our  repose,  the  voice  of  acclamation  and  gratitude,  commencing 
on  the  Rock  of  Plymouth,  shall  be  transmitted  through  millions  of 
the  sons  of  the  Pilgrims,  till  it  lose  itself  in  the  murmurs  of  the 
Pacific  Seas. 

We  would  leave,  for  the  consideration  of  those  who  shall  then 
occupy  our  places,  some  proof  that  we  hold  the  blessings  transmitted 
from  our  fathers  in  just  estimation  ;  some  proof  of  our  attachment 
to  the  cause  of  good  government,  and  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  ; 
some  proof  of  a  sincere  and  ardent  desire  to  promote  everything 
which  may  enlarge  the  understandings  and  improve  the  hearts  of 
men.  And  when,  from  the  long  distance  of  one  hundred  years,  they 
shall  look  back  upon  us,  they  shall  know,  at  least,  that  we  possessed 
affections  which,  running  backward,  and  warming  with  gratitude  for 
what  our  ancestors  have  done  for  our  happiness,  run  forward  also  to 
our  posterity,  and  meet  them  with  cordial  salutation,  ere  yet  they 
have  arrived  on  the  shore  of  being. 

Advance,  then,  ye  future  generations  !      We  would  hail  you,  as 


DANIEL    WEBSTER.  83 

you  rise  in  your  long  succession,  to  fill  the  places  which  we  now  fill, 
and  to  taste  the  blessings  of  existence  where  we  are  passing,  and 
soon  shall  have  passed,  our  own  human  duration.  We  bid  you  wel- 
come to  this  pleasant  land  of  the  fathers.  We  bid  you  welcome  to 
the  healthful  skies  and  the  verdant  fields  of  New  England.  We 
greet  your  accession  to  the  great  inheritance  which  we  have  enjoyed. 
We  welcome  you  to  the  blessings  of  good  government  and  religious 
liberty.  We  welcome  you  to  the  treasures  of  science  and  the  de- 
lights of  learning.  We  welcome  you  to  the  transcendent  sweets 
of  domestic  life,  to  the  happiness  of  kindred,  and  parents,  and  chil- 
dren. We  welcome  you  to  the  immeasurable  blessings  of  rational 
existence,  the  immortal  hope  of  Christianity,  and  the  light  of  ever- 
lasting truth. 


[From  the  speech  upon  the  trial  of  Knapp,  for  the  murder  of  Stephen  White,  at  Salem, 

Mass.,  1830.] 

THE  deed  was  executed  with  a  degree  of  self-possession  and 
steadiness  equal  to  the  wickedness  with  which  it  was  planned. 
The  circumstances,  now  clearly  in  evidence,  spread  out  the  whole 
scene  before  us.  Deep  sleep  had  fallen  on  the  destined  victim,  and 
on  all  beneath  his  roof.  A  healthful  old  man,  to  whom  sleep  was 
sweet,  the  first  sound  slumbers  of  the  night  held  him  in  their  soft 
but  strong  embrace.  The  assassin  enters,  through  the  window 
already  prepared,  into  an  unoccupied  apartment.  With  noiseless 
foot  he  paces  the  lonely  hall,  half  lighted  by  the  moon ;  he  winds 
up  the  ascent  of  the  stairs,  and  reaches  the  door  of  the  chamber. 
Of  this  he  moves  the  lock,  by  soft  and  continued  pressure,  till  it 
turns  on  its  hinges  without  noise ;  and  he  enters,  and  beholds  his 
victim  before  him.  The  room  was  uncommonly  open  to  the  admis- 
sion of  light.  The  face  of  the  innocent  sleeper  was  turned  from 
the  murderer,  and  the  beams  of  the  moon,  resting  on  the  gray  locks 
of  his  aged  temple,  showed  him  where  to  strike.  The  fatal  blow 
is  given,  and  the  victim  passes,  without  a  struggle  or  a  motion,  from 
the  repose  of  sleep  to  the  repose  of  death  !  It  is  the  assassin's 
purpose  to  make  sure  work,  and  he  yet  plies  the  dagger,  though  it 
was  obvious  that  life  had  been  destroyed  by  the  blow  of  the  blud- 
geon. He  even  raises  the  aged  arm,  that  he  may  not  fail  in  his 
aim  at  the  heart,  and  •  replaces  it  again  over  the  wounds  of  the 
poniard.  To  finish  the  picture,  he  explores  the  wrist  for  the  pulse. 
He  feels  for  it,  and  ascertains  that  it  beats  no  longer.  It  is  accom- 


84        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

plished.  The  deed  is  done.  He  retreats,  retraces  his  steps  to  the 
window,  passes  out  through  it  as  he  came  in,  and  escapes.  He 
has  done  the  murder.  No  eye  has  seen  him,  no  ear  has  heard 
him.  The  secret  is  his  own,  and  it  is  safe. 

Ah,  gentlemen,  that  was  a  dreadful  mistake.  Such  a  secret  can 
be  safe  nowhere.  The  whole  creation  of  God  has  neither  nook 
nor  corner  where  the  guilty  can  bestow  it,  and  say  it  is  safe.  Not 
to  speak  of  that  eye  which  glances  through  all  disguises,  and  be- 
holds everything  as  in  the  splendor  of  noon,  such  secrets  of  guilt 
are  never  safe  from  detection  even  by  men.  True  it  is,  generally 
speaking,  that  "murder  will  out."  True  it  is  that  Providence 
hath  so  ordained,  and  doth  so  govern  things,  that  those  who  break 
the  great  law  of  Heaven  by  shedding  man's  blood  seldom  suc- 
ceed in  avoiding  discovery.  Especially  in  a  case  exciting  so  much 
attention  as  this,  discovery  must  come,  and  will  come,  sooner  or 
later.  A  thousand  eyes  turn  at  once  to  explore  every  man,  every 
thing,  every  circumstance  connected  with  the  time  and  place  ;  a  thou- 
sand ears  catch  every  whisper  ;  a  thousand  excited  minds  intensely 
dwell  on  the  scene,  shedding  all  their  light,  and  ready  to  kindle  the 
slightest  circumstance  into  a  blaze  of  discovery.  Meantime  the 
guilty  soul  cannot  keep  its  own  secret.  It  is  false  to  itself,  or, 
rather,  it  feels  an  irresistible  impulse  of  conscience  to  be  true  to 
itself.  It  labors  under  its  guilty  possession,  and  knows  not  what 
to  do  with  it.  The  human  heart  was  not  made  for  the  residence 
of  such  an  inhabitant.  It  finds  itself  preyed  on  by  a  torment 
which  it  dares  not  acknowledge  to  God  nor  man.  A  vulture  is 
devouring  it,  and  it  can  ask  no  sympathy  or  assistance  either  from 
heaven  or  earth.  The  secret  which  the  murderer  possesses  soon 
comes  to  possess  him,  and,  like  the  evil  spirits  of  which  we  read, 
it  overcomes  him,  and  leads  him  whithersoever  it  will.  He  feels 
it  beating  at  his  heart,  rising  to  his  throat,  and  demanding  disclo- 
sure. He  thinks  the  whole  world  sees  it  in  his  face,  reads  it  in 
his  eyes,  and  almost  hears  its  workings  in  the  very  silence  of  his 
thoughts.  It  has  become  his  master.  It  betrays  his  discretion,  it 
breaks  down  his  courage,  it  conquers  his  prudence.  When  suspi- 
cions from  without  begin  to  embarrass  him,  and  the  net  of  circum- 
stances to  entangle  him,  the  fatal  secret  struggles  with  still  greater 
violence  to  burst  forth.  It  must  be  confessed,  it  will  be  confessed  ; 
there  is  no  refuge  from  confession  but  suicide  —  and  suicide  is  con- 
fession. 


DANIEL    WEBSTER.  8$ 

THE  UNION.  —  PERORATION  OF  SECOND   SPEECH   ON  FOOT'S   RESO- 
LUTION,   IN   REPLY   TO   HAYNE. 

MR.  PRESIDENT:  I  have  thus  stated  the  reasons  of  my  dissent  to 
the  doctrines  which  have  been  advanced  and  maintained.  I  am  con- 
scious of  having  detained  you  and  the  Senate  much  too  long.  I 
was  drawn  into  the  debate  with  no  previous  deliberation  such  as  is 
suited  to  the  discussion  of  so  grave  and  important  a  subject.  But 
it  is  a  subject  of  which  my  heart  is  full,  and  I  have  not  been  will- 
ing to  suppress  the  utterance  of  its  spontaneous  sentiments.  I  can- 
not, even  now,  persuade  myself  to  relinquish  it  without  expressing 
once  more  my  deep  conviction  that,  since  it  respects  nothing  less 
than  the  union  of  the  states,  it  is  of  most  vital  and  essential  impor- 
tance to  the  public  happiness.  I  profess,  sir,  in  my  careeer  hitherto, 
to  have  kept  steadily  in  view  the  prosperity  and  honor  of  the  whole 
country,  and  the  preservation  of  our  Federal  Union.  It  is  to  that 
union  we  owe  our  safety  at  home,  and  our  consideration  and  dignity 
abroad.  It  is  to  that  union  that  we  are  chiefly  indebted  for  what- 
ever makes  us  most  proud  of  our  country.  That  union  we  reached 
only  by  the  discipline  of  our  virtues  in  the  severe  school  of  adver- 
sity. It  had  its  origin  in  the  necessities  of  disordered  finance,  pros- 
trate commerce,  and  ruined  credit.  Under  its  benign  influences 
these  great  interests  immediately  awoke,  as  from  the  dead,  and 
sprang  forth  with  newness  of  life.  Every  year  of  its  duration  has 
teemed  with  fresh  proofs  of  its  utility  and  its  blessings ;  and  al- 
though our  territory  has  stretched  out  wider  and  wider,  and  our 
population  spread  farther  and  farther,  they  have  not  outrun  its 
protection  or  its  benefits.  It  has  been  to  us  all  a  copious  foun- 
tain of  national,  social,  and  personal  happiness. 

I  have  not  allowed  myself,  sir,  to  look  beyond  the  union,  to 
see  what  might  lie  hidden  in  the  dark  recess  behind.  I  have  not 
coolly  weighed  the  chances  of  preserving  liberty  when  the  bonds 
that  unite  us  together  shall  be  broken  asunder.  I  have  not  accus- 
tomed myself  to  hang  over  the  precipice  of  disunion,  to  see  whether, 
with  my  short  sight,  I  can  fathom  the  depth  of  the  abyss  below  ; 
nor  could  I  regard  him  as  a  safe  counsellor  in  the  affairs  of  this 
government  whose  thoughts  should  be  mainly  bent  on  consider- 
ing, not  how  the  union  may  be  best  preserved,  but  how  tolerable 
might  be  the  condition  of  the  people  when  it  should  be  broken  up 
and  destroyed.  While  the  union  lasts,  we  have  high,  exciting, 
gratifying,  prospects  spread  out  before  us,  for  us  and  our  children. 


86        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Beyond  that  I  seek  not  to  penetrate  the  veil.  God  grant  that  in 
my  day,  at  least,  that  curtain  may  not  rise.  God  grant  that  on  my 
vision  never  may  be  opened  what  lies  behind.  When  my  eyes 
shall  be  turned  to  behold  for  the  last  time  the  sun  in  heaven, 
may  I  not  see  him  shining  on  the  broken  and  dishonored  fragments 
of  a  once  glorious  union;  on  states  dissevered,  discordant,  bel- 
ligerent ;  on  a  land  rent  with  civil  feuds,  or  drenched,  it  may  be, 
in  fraternal  blood !  Let  their  last  feeble  and  lingering  glance 
rather  behold  the  gorgeous  ensign  of  the  republic,  now  known 
and  honored  throughout  the  earth,  still  full  high  advanced,  its  arms 
and  trophies  streaming  in  their  original  lustre,  not  a  stripe  erased 
or  polluted,  nor  a  single  star  obscured,  bearing  for  its  motto  no 
such  miserable  interrogatory  as,  "  What  is  all  this  worth  ?  "  nor 
those  other  words  of  delusion  and  folly,  "  Liberty  first,  and  Union 
afterwards  ; "  but  everywhere,  spread  all  over  in  characters  of  living 
light,  blazing  on  all  its  ample  folds,  and  as  they  float  over  the  sea 
and  over  the  land,  and  in  every  wind  under  the  whole  heavens, 
that  other  sentiment,  dear  to  every  true  American  heart  —  Liberty 
and  Union,  now  and  forever,  one  and  inseparable. 


JOHN   CALDWELL   CALHOUN. 


John  Caldwell  Calhoun  was  born  in  Abbeville  District,  S.  C,  March  18,  1782.  His 
early  instruction  was  received  at  home  ;  but  at  the  age  of  nineteen  he  was  induced  to  com- 
mence classical  study,  and  in  two  years  he  was  admitted  into  the  junior  class  in  Yale  Col- 
lege. He  was  a  remarkable  scholar,  and  the  vigor  and  maturity  of  his  mind  gave  abundant 
promise  of  his  future  eminence.  He  studied  law  and  commenced  practice  in  his  native 
place,  but  soon  abandoned  his  profession  for  a  public  career.  After  two  terms  of  service  in 
the  state  legislature  he  was  elected  a  member  of  Congress,  where  he  took  his  seat  in 
November,  1811.  His  attitude  towards  the  party  in  power  was  a  wholly  independent  one, 
and  he  was  as  often  allied  with  the  opposition  as  with  the  administration.  Thus,  while  he 
was  an  ardent  advocate  for  the  war  with  Great  Britain,  he  was  an  early  friend  of  internal 
improvements,  and  an  advocate  for  a  United  States  bank.  Upon  the  accession  of  Monroe  to 
the  presidency,  Mr.  Calhoun  was  made  secretary  of  state.  As  a  member  of  the  cabinet  he 
warmly  opposed  the  conduct  of  General  Jackson  in  his  Florida  campaign,  and  at  the  next 
general  election,  which  resulted  in  favor  of  Adams,  having  maintained  a  neutrality  between 
the  rival  candidates,  he  was  himself  elected  vice-president.  The  youthful  reader  will  need 
to  be  reminded  that  this  took  place  when  the  electoral  college  was  a  substantial^  body 
chosen  to  elect  the  president  and  vice-president,  and  before  "national  conventions"  and 
"general  tickets  "  had  been  invented  to  turn  one  of  the  provisions  of  the  Constitution  into  a 
quadrennial  farce. 

Mr.  Calhoun  was  a^ain  elected  vice-president  in  1828.  It  was  during  this  period  that 
the  country  was  divided  between  the  rival  theories  of  "protection"  and  "free  trade,"  and 
that  South  Carolina  resolved  to  "  nullify  "  the  acts  of  the  general  government,  and  to  forci- 


JOHN    CALDWELL    CALHOUN.  8/ 

bly  prevent  the  collection  of  duties  on  imported  goods  within  her  boundaries.  This  course 
of  proceeding  was  undoubtedly  inspired  by  Calhoun,  who  was  the  great  advocate  of  "State 
Rights  ;  "  and  in  the  brilliant  debate  that  occurred  between  Colonel  Hayne,  of  South  Carolina, 
and  Mr.  Webster,  of  Massachusetts,  the  real  object  of  the  latter's  attack  was  the  vice- 
president  in  the  chair.  The  conflict  between  the  state  and  nation,  as  is  known,  was  avoided 
by  a  compromise  in  1833,  which  was  the  enactment  of  a  tariff  bill  with  a  sliding  scale  of  duties, 
under  which  protection  was  to  cease  in  ten  years. 

Mr.  Calhoun,  being  elected  to  the  Senate  again,  joined  with  Clay  in  his  attack  upon 
President  Jackson  for  removing  the  deposits  of  public,  money  into  the  custody  of  certain 
designated  banks.  He  was  the  author  of  the  bill  proposing  to  punish  postmasters  for  ad- 
mitting anti-slavery  documents  into  the  mails.  He  advocated  the  admission  of  Texas,  and 
opposed  the  admission  of  Michigan.  When,  in  the  financial  crisis  of  1837,  all  the  banks' 
suspended  specie  payments,  he  separated  from  the  whigs  on  the  bank  question,  and  sup- 
ported the  proposition  of  President  Van  Buren  for  the  establishment  of  an  independent 
treasury.  On  this  occasion  there  was  a  renowned  passage-at-arms  between  him  and  Clay  ; 
the  speeches  on  both  sides  are  the  best  specimens  of  oratory  of  these  great  rivals.  Having 
left  the  Senate  in  1843,  Mr.  Calhoun  was,  in  1844,  appointed  secretary  of  state  by  President 
Tyler,  when  he  immediately  negotiated  the  annexation  of  Texas,  and  promised  to  place  our 
forces  on  the  border  to  repel  any  invasion  from  Mexico.  The  annexation  was  not  actually 
consummated,  however,  until  the  coming  in  of  President  Polk. 

In  1845  Mr.  Calhoun  appeared  again  in  the  Senate,  and  strongly  opposed  the  war  with 
Mexico,  provoked  by  the  annexation  of  Texas,  at  least  so  far  as  carrying  it  on  by  the  inva- 
sion of  Mexican  territory.  He  attacked  the  Wilmot  Proviso,  prohibiting  slavery  in  any  ter- 
ritory that  should  be  acquired  from  Mexicoj  and,  so  far  from  temporizing  on  the  great  ques- 
tion that  divided  the  north  and  the  south,  advocated  the  policy  of  "forcing  the  issue  with 
the  north."  With  these  convictions  he  labored  incessantly  to  unite  southern  statesmen  in 
order  to  check  the  rising  power  of  the  northern  states ;  and,  when  the  contest  upon  the 
Compromise  measures  of  1850  came,  he  prepared  a  speech  advocating  radical  changes  in  the 
constitution  in  order  to  establish  an  equilibrium  between  the  two  sections.  He  was  unable 
to  deliver  it,  and  died  shortly  after,  March  31,  1850. 

The  intellect  of  Calhoun  was  best  shown  in  the  discussion  of  abstract  principles,  and  in 
carrying  out,  with  logical  directness,  his  constructions  of  constitutional  law.  Slavery  was 
the  corner-stone  of  his  ideal  commonwealth,  and  the  doctrine  of  state  rights,  with  a  rigid 
limitation  of  the  powers  of  the  Federal  government,  was  the  only  effectual  bulwark  of 
slavery.  While  others  pursued  the  tortuous  course  of  expediency,  his  movements  were  in 
a  right  line.  With  one  great  and  controlling  principle  in  view,  he  did  not  care  what  politi- 
cian's schemes  he  crossed,  or  with  which  party  his  action  for  the  time  chanced  to  coincide. 
For  his  personal  popularity  he  cared  as  little  as  he  did  for  the  views  of  opponents.  Well 
was  he  named  the  "  Iron  Man,"  for  of  all  the  statesmen  of  his  era  he  had  the  clearest  vision, 
the  most  remorseless  logic  (granting  his  premises)  and  the  most  unswerving  determination 
of  purpose.  As  may  be  inferred,  the  style  of  the  orator  was  in  harmony  with  the  nature  of 
the  man.  Imagination,  fancy,  grace,  and  the  arts  of  rhetoric  had  no  place  in  his  intellectual 
system.  But  his  arguments  always  set  the  strongest  of  his  adversaries  to  thinking,  and  left 
friends  and  foes  alike  with  a  feeling  of  admiration  for  his  power.  His  private  life  was  with- 
out stain,  and  his  home,  where  he  was  the  biblical  patriarch,  was  always  a  hospitable  and 
pleasant  resort.  His  works,  with  a  memoir  by  Richard  K.  Cralle,  have  been  published  in 
six  volumes. 

[From  the  speech  on  the  Force  Bill,  in  the  Senate,  February,  1833.] 
STATE   SOVEREIGNTY. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  all  that  has  been  said,  I  may  say  that  neither 
the  senator  from  Delaware  [Mr.  Clayton],  nor  any  other  who  has 


88  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

spoken  on  the  same  side,  has  directly  and  fairly  met  the  great  ques- 
tion at  issue  :  Is  this  a  federal  union  ?  a  union  of  states,  as  distinct 
from  that  of  individuals  ?  Is  the  sovereignty  in  the  several  states, 
or  in  the  American  people  in  the  aggregate  ?  The  very  language 
which  we  are  compelled  to  use  when  speaking  of  our  political  institu- 
tions affords  proof  conclusive  as  to  its  real  character.  The  terms 
"union,"  "federal,"  "united,"  all  imply  a  combination  of  sovereignties, 
a  confederation  of  states.  They  are  never  applied  to  an  association 
of  individuals.  Who  ever  heard  of  the  United  State  of  New  York, 
of  Massachusetts,  or  of  Virginia  ?  Who  ever  heard  the  ter.m  federal  or 
union  applied  to  the  aggregation  of  individuals  into  one  community  ? 
Nor  is  the  other  point  less  clear  —  that  the  sovereignty  is-  in  the 
several  states,  and  that  our  system  is  a  union  of  twenty-four  sov- 
ereign powers,  under  a  constitutional  compact,  and  not  of  a  divided 
sovereignty  between  the  states  severally  and  the  United  States.  In 
spite  of  all  that  has  been  said,  I  maintain  that  sovereignty  is  in  its 
nature  indivisible.  It  is  the  supreme  power  in  a  state,  and  we  might 
just  as  well  speak  of  half  a  square,  or  half  of  a  triangle,  as  of  half  a 
sovereignty.  It  is  a  gross  error  to  confound  the  exercise  of  sov- 
ereign powers  with  sovereignty  itself,  or  the  delegation  of  such 
powers  with  the  surrender  of  them.  A  sovereign  may  delegate  his 
powers  to  be  exercised  by  as  many  agents  as  he  may  think  proper, 
under  such  conditions  and  with  such  limitations  as  he  may  impose  ; 
but  to  surrender  any  portion  of  his  sovereignty  to  another  is  to  an- 
nihilate the  whole.  The  senator  from  Delaware  [Mr.  Clayton]  calls 
this  metaphysical  reasoning,  which,  he  says,  he  cannot  comprehend. 
If  by  metaphysics  he  means  that  scholastic  refinement  which  makes 
distinctions  without  difference,  no  one  can  hold  it  in  more  utter  con- 
tempt than  I  do ;  but  if,  on  the  contrary,  he  means  the  power  of 
analysis  and  combination,  —  that  power  which  reduces  the  most  com- 
plex idea  into  its  elements,  which  traces  causes  to  their  first  prin- 
ciple, and,  by  the  power  of  generalization  and  combination,  unites 
the  whole  in  one  harmonious  system,  —  then,  so  far  from  deserving 
contempt,  it  is  the  highest  attribute  of  the  human  mind.  It  is  the 
power  which  raises  man  above  the  brute  —  which  distinguishes  his 
faculties  from  mere  sagacity,  which  he  holds  in  common  with  inferior 
animals.  It  is  this  power  which  has  raised  the  astronomer  from 
being  a  mere  gazer  at  the  stars  to  the  high  intellectual  eminence  of  a 
Newton  or  a  Laplace,  and  astronomy  itself  from  a  mere  observation 
of  insulated  facts  into  that  noble  science  which  displays  to  our 
admiration  the  system  of  the  universe.  And  shall  this  high  power 


JOHN    CALDWELL    CALHOUN.  89 

of  the  mind,  which  has  effected  such  wonders  when  directed  to  the 
laws  which  control  the  material  world,  be  forever  prohibited,  under 
a  senseless  cry  of  metaphysics,  from  being  applied  to  the'  high  pur- 
pose of  political  science  and  legislation  ?  I  hold  them  to  be  subject 
to  laws  as  fixed  as  matter  itself,  and  to  be  as  fit  a  subject  for  the 
application  of  the  highest  intellectual  power.  Denunciation  may, 
indeed,  fall  upon  the  philosophical  inquirer  into  these  first  principles, 
as  it  did  upon  Galileo  and  Bacon  when  they  first  unfolded  the  great 
discoveries  which  have  immortalized  their  names  ;  but  the  time  will 
come  when  truth  will  prevail  in  spite -of  prejudice  and  denunciation, 
and  when  politics  and  legislation  will  be  considered  as  much  a  science 
as  astronomy  and  chemistry. 


[From  a  speech  in  reply  to  John  Randolph  in  favor  of  a  war  with  Great  Britain,  delivered 
in  Congress,  1811.] 

SIR,  I  am  not  insensible  to  the  weighty  importance  of  the  proposi- 
tion, for  the  first  time  submitted  to  this  house,  to  compel  a  redress 
of  our  long  list  of  complaints  against  one  of  the  belligerents.  Ac- 
cording to  my  mode  of  thinking,  the  more  serious  the  question,  the 
stronger  and  more  unalterable  ought  to  be  our  convictions  before  we 
give  it  our  support.  War,  in  our  country,  ought  never  to  be  resorted 
to  but  when  it  is  clearly  justifiable  and  necessary ;  so  much  so  as 
not  to  require  the  aid  of  logic  to  convince  our  understandings,  nor 
the  ardor  of  eloquence  to  inflame  our  passions.  There  are  many 
reasons  why  this  country  should  never  resort  to  war  but  for  causes 
the  most  urgent  and  necessary.  It  is  sufficient  that,  under  a  govern- 
ment like  ours,  none  but  such  will  justify  it  in  the  eyes  of  the  people  ; 
and  were  I  not  satisfied  that  such  is  the  present  case,  I  certainly 
would  be  no  advocate  of  the  proposition  now  before  the  house. 

Sir,  I  might  prove  the  war,  should  it  ensue,  justifiable,  by  the  ex- 
press admission  of  the  gentleman  from  Virginia  ;  and  necessary,  by 
facts  undoubted,  and  universally  admitted  —  such  as  he  did  not  pre- 
tend to  controvert.  The  extent,  duration,  and  character  of  the  injuries 
received,  the  failure  of  those  peaceful  means  heretofore  resorted  to  for 
the  redress  of  our  wrongs,  are  my  proofs  that  it  is  necessary.  Why 
should  I  mention  the  impressment  of  our  seamen  ;  depredations  on 
every  branch  of  our  commerce,  including  the  direct  export  trade, 
continued  for  years,  and  made  under  laws  which  professedly  under- 
take to  regulate  our  trade  with  other  nations  ;  negotiation  resorted 
to,  again  and  again,  till  it  is  become  hopeless ;  the  restrictive  system 


gO  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

persisted  in  to  avoid  war,  and  in  the  vain  expectation  of  returning 
justice  ?  The  evil  still  grows,  and,  in  each  succeeding  year,  swells 
in  extent  and  pretension  beyond  the  preceding.  The  question,  even 
in  the  opinion  and  by  the  admission  of  our  opponents,  is  reduced  to 
this  single  point :  Which  shall  we  do  —  abandon  or  defend  our  own 
commercial  and  maritime  rights,  and  the  personal  liberties  of  our 
citizens  employed  in  exercising  them  ?  These  rights  are  vitally 
attacked,  and  war  is  the  only  means  of  redress.  The  gentleman 
from  Virginia  has  suggested  none,  unless  we  consider  the  whole  of 
his  speech  as  recommending  patient  and  resigned  submission  as  the 
best  remedy.  Sir,  which  alternative  this  house  will  embrace  it  is 
not  for  me  to  say.  I  hope  the  decision  is  made  already,  by  a  higher 
authority  than  the  voice  of  any  man.  It  is  not  for  the  human 
tongue  to  instil  the  sense  of  independence  and  honor.  This  is  the 
work  of  nature  —  a  generous  nature,  that  disdains  tame  submission 
to  wrongs.  .  .  . 

The  first  argument  of  the  gentleman  which  I  shall  notice  is  the 
unprepared  state  of  the  country.  Whatever  weight  this  argument 
might  have  in  a  question  of  immediate  war,  it  surely  has  little  in  that 
of  preparation  for  it.  If  our  country  is  unprepared,  let  us  remedy 
the  evil  as  soon  as  possible.  Let  the  gentleman  submit  his  plan  ; 
and,  if  a  reasonable  one,  I  doubt  not  it  will  be  supported  by 
the  house. 

But,  sir,  let  us  admit  the  fact  and  the  whole  force  of  the  argu- 
ment. I  ask,  whose  is  the  fault  ?  Who  has  been  a  member,  for 
many  years  past,  and  seen  the  defenceless  state  of  his  country  even 
near  home,  under  his  own  eyes,  without  a  single  endeavor  to  remedy 
so  serious  an  evil  ?  Let  him  not  say,  "  I  have  acted  in  a  minority." 
It  is  no  less  the  duty  of  the  minority  than  a  majority  to  endeavor  to 
defend  the  country.  For  that  purpose  we  are  sent  here,  and  not  for 
that  of  opposition. 

We  are  next  told  of  the  expense  of  the  war,  and  that  the  people 
will  not  pay  taxes. 

Why  not?  Is  it  from  want  of  means?  What,  with  a  million 
tons  of  shipping,  a  commerce  of  a  hundred  million  dollars  an- 
nually, manufactures  yielding  a  yearly  product  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty  million  dollars,  and  agriculture  of  thrice  that  amount,  shall  we 
be  told  the  country  wants  capacity  to  raise  and  support  ten  thousand 
or  fifteen  thousand  additional  regulars  ?  No  ;  it  has  the  ability ; 
that  is  admitted  ;  and  will  it  not  have  the  disposition?  Is  not  the 
cause  a  just  and  necessary  one  ?  Shall  we  then  utter  this  libel  on 


JOHN    CALDWELL    CALHOUN.  QI 

the  people  ?  Where  will  proof  be  found  of  a  fact  so  disgraceful  ?  It 
is  answered —  In  the  history  of  the  country  twelve  or  fifteen  years 
ago.  The  case  is  not  parallel.  The  ability  of  the  country  is  greatly 
increased  since.  The  whiskey  tax  was  unpopular.  But  on  this,  as 
well  as  my  memory  serves  me,  the  objection  was  not  to  the  tax  or 
its  amount,  but  the  mode  of  collection.  The  people  were  startled 
by  the  number  of  officers  ;  their  love  of  liberty  shocked  with  the 
multiplicity  of  regulations.  We,  in  the  spirit  of  imitation,  copied 
from  the  most  oppressive  part  of  European  laws  on  the  subject  of 
taxes,  and  imposed  on  a  young  and  virtuous  people  all  the  severe 
provisions  made  necessary  by  corruption  and  long-practised  eva- 
sions. If  taxes  should  become  necessary,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say 
the  people  will  pay  cheerfully.  It  is  for  their  government  and  their 
cause,  and  it  would  be  their  interest  and  their  duty  to  pay.  But  it 
may  be,  and  I  believe  was  said,  that  the  people  will  not  pay  taxes, 
because  the  rights  violated  are  not  worth  defending,  or  that  the 
defence  will  cost  more  than  the  gain.  Sir,  I  here  enter  my  solemn 
protest  against  this  low  and  "  calculating  avarice  "  entering  this  hall 
of  legislation.  It  is  only  fit  for  shops  and  counting-houses,  and 
ought  not  to  disgrace  the  seat  of  power  by  its  squalid  aspect. 
Whenever  it  touches  sovereign  power,  the  nation  is  ruined.  It  is 
too  short-sighted  to  defend  itself.  It  is  a  compromising  spirit, 
always  ready  to  yield  a  part  to  save  the  residue.  It  is  too  timid  to 
have  in  itself  the  laws  of  self-preservation.  It  is  never  safe  but 
under  the  shield  of  honor.  There  is,  sir,  one  principle  necessary  to 
make  us  a  great  people  —  to  produce  not  the  form,  but  real  spirit  of 
union  ;  and  that  is,  to  protect  every  citizen  in  the  lawful  pursuit  of 
his  business.  He  will  then  feel  that  he  is  backed  by  the  govern- 
ment— that  its  arm  is  his  arm  —  and  will  rejoice  in  its  increased 
strength  and  prosperity.  Protection  and  patriotism  are  reciprocal. 
This  is  the  way  which  has  led  nations  to  greatness.  Sir,  I  am  not 
versed  in  this  calculating  policy,  and  will  not,  therefore,  pretend  to 
estimate  in  dollars  and  cents  the  value  of  national  independence.  I 
cannot  measure  in  shillings  and  pence  the  misery,  the  stripes,  and 
the  slavery  of  our  impressed  seamen  ;  nor  even  the  value  of  our 
shipping,  commercial  and  agricultural  losses,  under  the  Orders  in 
Council  and  the  British  system  of  blockade.  In  thus  expressing 
myself,  I  do  not  intend  to  condemn  any  prudent  estimate  of  the 
means  of  a  country  before  it  enters  on  a  war.  This  is  wisdom  — 
the  other,  folly.  The  gentleman  from  Virginia  has  not  failed  to 
touch  on  the  calamity  of  war,  that  fruitful  source  of  declamation  by 


92  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

which  humanity  is  made  the  advocate  of  submission.  If  he  desires 
to  repress  the  gallant  ardor  of  our  countrymen  by  such  topics,  let 
me  inform  him  that  true  courage  regards  only  the  cause,  that  it  is 
just  and  necessary  ;  and  that  it  contemns  the  sufferings  and  dangers 
of  war.  If  he  really  wishes  to  promote  the  cause  of  humanity,  let 
his  eloquence  be  addressed  to  Lord  Wellesley  or  Mr.  Perceval,  and 
not  the  American  Congress.  Tell  them,  if  they  persist  in  such 
daring  insult  and  injury  to  a  neutral  nation,  that,  however  inclined 
to  peace,  it  will  be  bound  in  honor  and  safety  to  resist;  that 
their  patience  and  endurance,  however  great,  wilf  be  exhausted ; 
that  the  calamity  of  war  will  ensue  ;  and  that  they,  in  the  opinion  of 
the  world,  will  be  answerable  for  all  its  devastation  and  misery. 
Let  a  regard  to  the  interests  of  humanity  stay  the  hand  of  injustice, 
and  my  life  on  it,  the  gentleman  will  not  find  it  difficult  to  dissuade 
his  country  from  rushing  into  the  bloody  scenes  of  war. 


WASHINGTON   IRVING. 

Washington  Irving  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  April  3,  1783.  He  received  only 
a  common  school  education,  which  ended  in  his  sixteenth  year,  and  thenceforward  his  mind 
had  its  own  development.  He  read  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  a  collection  of  voyages,  and  after- 
wards Chaucer,  and  Spenser,  and  other  English  classics :  he  studied  law  for  a  time,  made 
river  excursions,  and  travelled  over  his  island-home  in  search  of  adventures  with  great 
assiduity.  Civilization  had  then  extended  no  farther  than  Chambers  Street.  Dutch  houses, 
with  stoops  and  gables,  were  common,  and  the  streets  were  bordered  with  rows  of  tall  pop- 
lars, like  troops  in  skirmish  lines.  The  valiant  burgomasters  of  Peter  Stuyvesant's  time 
were  not  so  remote  as  they  now  seem.  Spuyten-Duyvel  Creek  and  Hell  Gate  were  in 
regions  of  mystery.  The  island,  the  broad  bay,  and  the  north  river,  with  'its  noble  shores, 
were  all  rich  in  traditions  connected  with  the  settlement  of  the  country  and  the  changes  that 
had  occurred  among  the  people  and  their  rulers.  In  the  Author's  Account  of  Himself,  pre- 
fixed to  the  Sketch  Book,  we  see  glimpses  of  his  rambling  disposition,  and  understand  how 
he  acquired  that  perfect  knowledge  of  the  country,  with  its  customs  and  legends,  which  gives 
to  the  History  of  New  York,  and  to  the  tales  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  and  Sleepy  Hollow,  their 
peculiar  charm. 

In  1802  he  began  to  write  for  a  newspaper,  conducted  by  his  brother,  Dr.  Peter  Irving. 
Being  threatened  with  pulmonary  disease,  he  sailed  for  Europe  in  1804,  landing  at  Bor- 
deaux, and  visiting  Genoa,  Sicily,  Naples,  Rome,  and  Paris,  and  from  thence  journeying 
through  Brussels,  Maestricht,  and  Rotterdam  to  London.  It  was  at  Rome  that  he  met  All- 
ston,  and  for  a  time  thought  of  being  a  painter.  He  returned  to  New  York  in  1806,  re- 
sumed the  study  of  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  ;  but  it  does  not  appear  that  he  ever 
practised  his  profession. 

In  company  with  his  brother  William  and  James  K.  Paulding,  he  engaged  in  a  serial  pub- 
lication, entitled  Salmagundi.  It  was  filled  with  clever  satire  upon  the  follies  of  the  day, 
and  was  immediately  successful.  The  next  venture  of  Irving  was  the  publication  of  his  His- 
tory of  New  York,  which  is,  perhaps,  the  most  unique,  perfectly  rounded,  and  elaborately 
sustained  burlesque  in  our  literature.  It  has  enough  of  sober  history  to  ballast  it,  and  its 


WASHINGTON    IRVING.  93 

ludicrous  incidents  and  studies  of  the  whimsical  .traits  of  Dutch  character  are  painted  with  a 
grave  air  of  verity  that  keeps  the  reader  in  a  perpetual  but  never  tiresome  chuckle.  It  is 
amusing  now  to  read  that  the  descendants  of  the  old  families,  whose  names  figure  in  the 
book,  as  well  as  members  of  the  Historical  Society,  and  critics  like  Verplanck,  were  angry 
•with  the  author,  and  gravely  condemned  the  pleasantry  as  a  wrong  to  the  memory  of  the 
Dutch  forefathers. 

He  conducted  the  Analectic  Magazine  in  Philadelphia  for  two  years,  and  contributed 
many  articles  that  afterwards  appeared  in  the  Sketch  Book  and  other  later  volumes. 

He  served  for  a  short  time  as  aide-de-camp  to  Governor  Tompkins  in  1814,  and,  at  the 
end  of  the  war,  went  to  Europe  for  the  benefit  of  his  health.  His  life  for  the  next  seven- 
teen years  was  full  of  interest,  but  its  events  cannot  be  compressed  within  the  narrow  space 
allotted  to  a  single  author  in  our  collection.  After  making  a  tour  of  the  continent,  he  enjoyed 
a  season  of  literary  companionship  in  London,  and  of  wanderings  through  England  and 
Scotland,  when  he  was  suddenly  thrown  upon  his  own  resources  by  the  failure  of  his  brother's 
house  in  New  York,  in  which  all  his  property  had  been  placed. 

He  wrote  the  Sketch  Book,  and  sent  it  to  New  York,  where  it  was  published,  in  1818,  in  a 
serial  form.  It  was  subsequently  published  in  London  by  Murray;  but  this  was  brought 
about  by  the  persuasion  of  Scott  (who  had  read  and  enjoyed  an  American  copy  of  the 
Knickerbocker)  after  Murray  had  once  declined  it.  This  work  was  at  once  accepted  as 
classic,  and  the  author's  reputation  was  placed  upon  a  permanent  basis.  The  judicious 
variety  of  subjects,  the  delicate  pathos  and  humor,  the  freshness  of  feeling,  and  the  exquisite 
finish  of  style  it  exhibited,  together  with  the  fact  that  it  was  the  work  of  an  author  born  and 
reared  in  a  country  supposed  to  possess  neither  learning  nor  refinement,  made  the  appear- 
ance of  the  Sketch  Book  a  literary  event.  His  next  work,  Bracebridge  Hall,  written  in 
Paris,  where  the  author  had  been  a  companion  of  Moore,  appeared  in  London  in  1822. 
Though  successful,  it  was  thought  to  be  over-refined  in  style.  The  following  winter  was 
spent  in  Dresden  (where  he  was  much  in  gay  society,  and  took  part  in  private  theatricals), 
and  the  next  season  in  Paris,  where  he  was  the  friend  and  adviser  of  J.  Howard  Payne,  the 
dramatist.  In  December,  1824,  he  published  the  Tales  of  a  Traveller.  He  was  commis- 
sioned in  1825,  by  Alexander  H.  Everett,  then  minister  to  Spain,  to  make  translations  of 
newly-discovered  papers,  in  Madrid,  referring  to  Columbus.  This  led  to  the  composition 
of  the  admirable  History  of  the  Life  and  Voyages  of  Christopher  Columbus,  published  in 
1828,  followed  by  the  Voyages  and  Discoveries  of  the  Companions  of  Columbus.  During 
his  residence  in  Spain  he  also  collected  the  materials  for  the  Conquest  of  Grenada,  The 
Alhambra,  Legends  of  the  Conquest  of  Spain,  and  Mahomet  and  his  Successors.  In  1829 
he  was  appointed  secretary  of  legation  to  the  American  embassy,  in  London,  and  in  1832 
returned  to  New  York,  where  he  was  welcomed  at  a  public  dinner.  He  next  made  a  trip 
beyond  the  Mississippi,  and  shortly  after  gave  to  the  public  A  Tour  on  the  Prairies.  This 
was  followed  by  Astoria,  The  Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville,  and  a  volume  of  miscel- 
lanies, entitled  Wolfert's  Roost.  In  1841  he  published  the  Life  of  Margaret  Davidson, 
with  an  edition  of  her  poetical  works.  The  next  year  he  was  appointed  minister  to  Spain. 
On  his  return,  four  years  later,  he  published  his  biography  of  Oliver  Goldsmith.  His  last 
and  most  elaborate  work  is  his  Life  of  Washington,  in  five  volumes. 

The  last  years  of  Irving's  life  were  spent  at  his  country-seat,  "Sunnyside,"  near  Tarry- 
town,  N.  Y.,  the  scene  of  his  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  He  was  never  married.  In  his 
youth  he  was  betrothed  to  Miss  Matilda  Hoffman,  who  died  in  her  eighteenth  year.  He 
remained  faithful  to  her  memory,  and  her  Bible,  kept  for  so  many  years,  was  upon  a  table 
at  his  bedside  when  he  died.  He  enjoyed  the  society  of  loving  relatives  and  friends,  for 
whom  he  always  kept  open  house ;  and  he  retained  his  self-denying,  cheerful  temper,  his 
simple  tastes,  and  unostentatious  habits  to  the  last.  His  death  occurred  November  28,  1859. 
His  Letters  and  Memoirs  have  been  given  to  the  world  by  his  nephew,  Pierre  M.  Irving. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  assign  Irving's  place  among  our  authors.  Thackeray  happily  spoke 
of  him  as  "the  first  ambassador  whom  the  New  World  of  Letters  sent  to  the  Old."  In  our 
lighter  literature  he  is  without  a  rival  as  an  artist.  He  is  equally  happy  in  his  delineations 


94  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

of  scenery  and  character  :  he  moves  us  to  tears  or  to  laughter  at  his  pleasure.  His  works 
have  all  an  admirable  proportion ;  nothing  necessary  is  omitted,  and  needless  details  are 
avoided.  He  never  fatigues  us  by  learned  antithesis,  nor  by  the  parallelism  of  proverbial 
philosophers.  In  short,  we  can  say  that  his  style  is  absolutely  unrivalled  in  its  fluency, 
grace,  and  picturesque  effect.  The  vivacity  of  his  youth  never  wholly  deserted  him  ;  al- 
though he  ceased  writing  humorous  works,  it  served  to  animate  his  graver  histories,  and  to 
give  them  a  charm  which  the  mere  annalist  could  not  attain.  His  life,  on  the  whole,  was 
fortunate  ;  his  fame  came  in  season  for  him  to  enjoy  it ;  his  works  brought  him  his  bread, 
honestly  earned,  and  not  merely  the  monumental  stone.  Other  authors  may  perhaps  excite 
more  of  our  wonder  or  reverence,  but  Irving  will  be  remembered  with  delight  and  love. 

[From  Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York.] 
A   DUTCH   GOVERNOR. 

THE  renowned  Wouter  (or  Walter)  Van  Twiller  was  descended 
from  a  long  line  of  Dutch  burgomasters,  who  had  successively  dozed 
away  their  lives,  and  grown  fat  upon  the  bench  of  magistracy  in 
Rotterdam,  and  who  had  comported  themselves  with  such  singular 
wisdom  and  propriety  that  they  were  never  either  heard  or  talked  of 
—  which,  next  to  being  universally  applauded,  should  be  the  object 
of  ambition  of  all  magistrates  and  rulers.  There  are  two  opposite 
ways  by  which  some  men  make  a  figure  in  the  world ;  one  by  talk- 
ing faster  than  they  think,  and  the  other  by  holding  their  tongues 
and  not  thinking  at  all.  By  the  first,  many  a  smatterer  acquires  the 
reputation  of  a  man  of  quick  parts  ;  by  the  other  many  a  dunder- 
pate,  like  the  owl,  the  stupidest  of  birds,  comes  to  be  considered  the 
very  type  of  wisdom.  This,  by  the  way,  is  a  casual  remark,  which 
I  would  not,  for  the  universe,  have  it  thought  I  apply  to  Governor 
Van  Twiller.  It  is  true  he  was  a  man  shut  up  within  himself,  like 
an  oyster,  and  rarely  spoke  except  in  monosyllables  ;  but  then  it  was 
allowed  he  seldom  said  a  foolish  thing.  So  invincible  was  his  gravity 
that  he  was  never  known  to  laugh,  or  even  to  smile,  through  the 
whole  course  of  a  long  and  prosperous  life.  Nay,  if  a  joke  were 
uttered  in  his  presence,  that  set  light-minded  hearers  in  a  roar,  it 
was  observed  to  throw  him  into  a  state  of  perplexity.  Sometimes 
he  would  deign  to  inquire  into  the  matter,  and  when,  after  much  ex- 
planation, the  joke  was  made  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff,  he  would  con- 
tinue to  smoke  his  pipe  in  silence,  and  at  length,  knocking  out  the 
ashes,  would  exclaim,  "Well,  I  see  nothing  in  all  that  to  laugh 
about." 

With  all  his  reflective  habits,  he  never  made  up  his  mind  on  a 
subject.  His  adherents  accounted  for  this  by  the  astonishing  mag- 
nitude of  his  ideas.  He  conceived  every  subject  on  so  grand  a  scale 
that  he  had  not  room  in  his  head  to  turn  it  over  and  examine  both 


WASHINGTON    IRVING.  95 

sides  of  it.  Certain  it  is,  that  if  any  matter  were  propounded  to 
him  on  which  ordinary  mortals  would  rashly  determine  at  first 
glance,  he  would  put  on  a  vague,  mysterious  look,  shake  his  capa- 
cious head,  smoke  some  time  in  profound  silence,  and'  at  length 
observe  that  "  he  had  his  doubts  about  the  matter ;  "  which^  gained 
him  the  reputation  of  a  man  slow  of  belief,  and  not  easily  imposed 
upon.  What  is  more,  it  gained  him  a  lasting  name,  for  to  this  habit 
of  the  mind  has  been  attributed  his  surname  of  Twiller,  which  is 
'said  to  be  a  corruption  of  the  original  Twijfler,  or,  in  plain  Eng- 
lish, Doubter. 

The  person  of  this  illustrious  old  gentleman  was  formed  and  pro- 
portioned as  though  it  had  been  moulded  by  the  hands  of  some 
cunning  Dutch  statuary,  as  a  model  of  majesty  and  lordly  grandeur. 
He  was  exactly  five  feet  six  inches  in  height,  and  six  feet  five  inches 
in  circumference.  His  head  was  a  perfect  sphere,  and  of  such  stu- 
pendous dimensions,  that  dame  Nature,  with  all  her  sex's  inge- 
nuity, would  have  been  puzzled  to  construct  a  neck  capable  of  sup- 
porting it ;  wherefore  she  wisely  declined  the  attempt,  and  settled  it 
firmly  on  the  top  of  his  backbone,  just  between  his  shoulders.  His 
body  was  oblong,  and  particularly  capacious  at  bottom,  which  was 
wisely  ordered  by  Providence,  seeing  that  he  was  a  man  of  seden- 
tary habits,  and  very  averse  to  the  idle  labor  of  walking.  His  legs 
were  short,  but  sturdy  in  proportion  to  the  weight  they  had  to  sus- 
tain ;  so  that  when  erect  he  had  not  a  little  the  appearance  of  a  beer 
barrel  on  skids.  His  face,  that  infallible  index  of  the  mind,  pre- 
sented a  vast  expanse,  unfurrowed  by  any  of  those  lines  and  angles 
which  disfigure  the  human  countenance  with  what  is  termed  expres- 
sion. Two  small  gray  eyes  twinkled  feebly  in  the  midst,  like  two 
stars  of  lesser  magnitude  in  a  hazy  firmament,  and  his  full-fed  cheeks, 
which  seemed  to  have  taken  toll  of  everything  that  went  into  his 
mouth,  were  curiously  mottled  and  streaked  with  dusky  red,  like  a 
spitzenberg  apple. 

His  habits  were  as  regular  as  his  person.  He  daily  took  his  four 
stated  meals,  appropriating  exactly  an  hour  to  each  ;  he  smoked  and 
doubted  eight  hours,  and  he  slept  the  remaining  twelve  of  the  four 
and  twenty.  Such  was  the  renowned  Wouter  Van  Twiller  —  a  true 
philosopher,  for  his  mind  was  either  elevated  above,  or  tranquilly 
settled  below,  the  cares  and  perplexities  of  this  world.  He  had 
lived  in  it  for  years,  without  feeling  the  least  curiosity  to  know 
whether  the  sun  revolved  round  it,  or  it  round  the  sun  ;  and  he  had 
watched,  for  at  least  half  a  century,  the  smoke  curling  from  his  pipe 


96        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

to  the  ceiling,  without  once  troubling  his  head  with  any  of  those  nu- 
merous theories  by  which  a  philosopher  would  have  perplexed  his 
brain,  in  accounting  for  its  rising  above  the  surrounding  atmosphere. 

In  his  council  he  presided  with  great  state  and  solemnity.  He  sat 
in  a  huge  chair  of  solid  oak,  hewn  in  the  celebrated  forest  of  the 
Hague,  fabricated  by  an  experienced  timberman  of  Amsterdam,  and 
curiously  carved  about  the  arms  and  feet  into  exact  imitations  of 
gigantic  eagle's  claws.  Instead  of  a  sceptre  he  swayed  a  long  Turk- 
ish pipe,  wrought  with  jasmine  and  amber,  which  had  been  presented 
to  a  stadtholder  of  Holland,  at  the  conclusion  of  a  treaty  with  one 
of  the  petty  Barbary  powers.  In  this  stately  chair  would  he  sit,  and 
this  magnificent  pipe  would  he  smoke,  shaking  his  right  knee  with  a 
constant  motion,  and  fixing  his  eye  for  hours  together  upon  a  little 
print  of  Amsterdam,  which  hung  in  a  black  frame  against  the  oppo- 
site wall  of  the  council  chamber.  Nay,  it  has  even  been  said,  that 
when  any  deliberation  of  extraordinary  length  and  intricacy  was 
on  the  carpet,  the  renowned  Wouter  would  shut  his  eyes  for  full  two 
hours  at  a  time,  that  he  might  not  be  disturbed  by  external  objects  ; 
and  at  such  times  the  internal  commotion  of  his  mind  was  evinced 
by  certain  regular  guttural  sounds,  which  his  admirers  declared  were 
merely  the  noise  of  conflict  made  by  his  contending  doubts  and 
opinions.  .  .  . 

The  very  outset  of  the  career  of  this  excellent  magistrate  was  dis- 
tinguished by  an  example  of  legal  acumen  that  gave  flattering  presage 
of  a  wise  and  equitable  administration.  The  morning  after  he  had 
been  installed  in  office,  and  at  the  moment  that  he  was  making  his 
breakfast  from  a  prodigious  earthen  dish,  filled  with  milk  and  Indian 
pudding,  he  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  Wandle  Schoon- 
hoven,  a  very  important  old  burgher  of  New  Amsterdam,  who  com- 
plained bitterly  of  one  Barent  Bleecker,  inasmuch  as  he  refused  to 
come  to  a  settlement  of  accounts,  seeing  that  there  was  a  heavy  bal- 
ance in  favor  of  the  said  Wandle.  Governor  Van  Twiller,  as  I  have 
already  observed,  was  a  man  of  few  words  ;  he  was  likewise  a  mor- 
tal enemy  to  multiplying  writings  —  or  being  disturbed  at  his  break- 
fast. Having  listened  attentively  to  the  statement  of  Wandle 
Schoonhoven,  giving  an  occasional  grunt  as  he  shovelled  a  spoonful 
of  Indian  pudding  into  his  mouth,  —  either  as  a  sign  that  he  relished 
the  dish  or  comprehended  the  story,  — he  called  unto  him  his  con- 
stable, and,  pulling  out  of  his  breeches  pocket  a  huge  jackknife,  de- 
spatched it  after  the  defendant  as  a  summons,  accompanied  by  his 
tobacco-box  as  a  warrant. 


WASHINGTON    IRVING.  97 

This  summary  process  was  as  effectual  in  those  simple  days  as 
was  the  seal  ring  of  the  great  Haroun  Alraschid  among  the  true  be- 
lievers. The  two  parties  being  confronted  before  him,  each  pro- 
duced a  book  of  accounts,  written  in  a  language  and  character  that 
would  have  puzzled  any  but  a  High  Dutch  commentator,  or  a  learned 
decipherer  of  Egyptian  obelisks.  The  sage  Wouter  took  them  one 
after  the  other,  and  having  poised  them  in  his  hands,  and  attentively 
counted  over  the  number  of  leaves,  fell  straightway  into  a  very  great 
doubt,  and  smoked  for  half  an  hour  without  saying  a  word.  At 
length,  laying  his  finger  beside  his  nose,  and  shutting  his  eyes  for  a 
moment,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  just  caught  a  subtle  idea  by 
the  tail,  he  slowly  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  puffed  forth  a  column 
of  tobacco  smoke,  and  with  marvellous  gravity  counted  over  the 
leaves  and  weighed  the  books :  it  was  found  that  one  was  just  as 
thick  and  as  heavy  as  the  other  —  therefore  it  was  the  final  opinion 
of  the  court  that  the  accounts  were  equally  balanced;  therefore 
Wandle  should  give  Barent  a  receipt,  and  Barent  should  give  Wan- 
die  a  receipt,  and  the  constable  should  pay  the  costs. 

This  decision,  being  straightway  made  known,  diffused  general  joy 
throughout  New  Amsterdam,  for  the  people  immediately  perceived 
that  they  had  a  very  wise  and  equitable  magistrate  to  rule  over  them. 
But  its  happiest  effect  was,  that  not  another  lawsuit  took  place 
throughout  the  whole  of  his  administration,  and  the  office  of  consta- 
ble fell  into  such  decay  that  there  was  not  one  of  those  losel  scouts 
known  in  the  province  for  many  years.  I  am  the  more  particular  in 
dwelling  on  this  transaction,  not  only  because  I  deem  it  one  of  the 
most  sage  and  righteous  judgments  on  record,  and  well  worthy  the 
attention  of  modern  magistrates,  but  because  it  was  a  miraculous 
event  in  the  history  of  the  renowned  Wouter —  being  the  only  time 
he  was  ever  known  to  come  to  a  decision  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life. 


[From  The  Sketch  Book.] 
EVENING  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

THE  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from  the  abbey.  I  could 
only  hear,  now  and  then,  the  distant  voice  of  the  priest  repeating  the 
evening  service,  and  the  faint  responses  of  the  choir  ;  these  paused 
for  a  time,  and  all  was  hushed.  The  stillness,  the  desertion  and 
obscurity  that  were  gradually  prevailing  around  gave  a  deeper  and 
more  solemn  interest  to  the  place,  — 
7 


98        HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

"  for  in  the  silent  grave  no  conversation, 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 
No  careful  father's  counsel  —  nothing's  heard, 
For  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 
Dust,  and  an  endless  darkness." 

Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring  organ  burst  upon  the  ear, 
falling  with  doubled  and  redoubled  intensity,  and  rolling,  as  it  were, 
huge  billows  of  sound.  How  well  do  their  volume  and  grandeur 
accord  with  this  mighty  building  !  With  what  pomp  do  they  swell 
through  its  vast  vaults,  and  breathe  their  awful  harmony  through 
these  caves  of  death,  and  make  the  silent  sepulchre  vocal  !  And 
now  they  rise  in  triumph  and  acclamation,  heaving  higher  and  higher 
their  accordant  notes,  and  piling  sound  on  sound.  And  now  they 
pause,  and  the  soft  voices  of  the  choir  break  out  into  sweet  gushes 
of  melody ;  they  soar  aloft,  and  warble  along  the  roof,  and  seem  to 
play  about  these  lofty  vaults  like  the  pure  airs  of  heaven.  Again  the 
pealing  organ  heaves  'its  thrilling  thunders,  compressing  air  into 
music,  and  rolling  it  forth  upon  the  soul.  What  long-drawn  ca- 
dences !  What  solemn,  sweeping  concords  !  It  grows  more  and 
more  dense  and  powerful  ;  it  fills  the  vast  pile,  and  seems  to  jar  the 
very  walls  ;  the  ear  is  stunned,  the  senses  are  overwhelmed.  And 
now  it  is  winding  up  in  full  jubilee  ;  it  is  rising  from  the  earth  to 
heaven ;  the  very  soul  seems  rapt  away  and  floated  upwards  on  this 
swelling  tide  of  harmony. 

I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie  which  a  strain  of 
music  is  apt  sometimes  to  inspire  :  the  shadows  of  evening  were 
gradually  thickening  round  me  ;  the  monuments  began  to  cast  deeper 
and  deeper  gloom,  and  the  distant  clock  again  gave  token  of  the 
slowly  waning  day. 

I  rose  and  prepared  to  leave  the  abbey.  As  I  descended  the 
flight  of  steps  which  lead  into  the  body  of  the  building,  my  eye  was 
caught  by  the  shrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  and  I  ascended  the 
small  staircase  that  conducts  to  it,  to  take  from  thence  a  general 
survey  of  this  wilderness  of  tombs.  The  shrine  is  elevated  upon  a 
kind  of  platform,  and  close  around  it  are  the  sepulchres  of  various 
kings  and  queens.  From  this  eminence  the  eye  looks  down  between 
pillars  and  funeral  trophies  to  the  chapels  and  chambers  below, 
crowded  with  tombs,  where  warriors,  prelates,  courtiers,  and  states- 
men lie  mouldering  in  their  "  beds  of  darkness."  Close  by  me  stood 
the  great  chair  of  coronation,  rudely  carved  of  oak,  in  the  barbarous 
taste  of  a  remote  and  Gothic  age.  The  scene  seemed  almost  as  if 


WASHINGTON    IRVING.  99 

contrived,  with  theatrical  artifice,  to  produce  an  effect  upon  the  be- 
holder. Here  was  a  type  of  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  human 
pomp  and  power ;  here  it  was  literally  but  a  step  from  the  throne  to 
the  sepulchre.  Would  not  one  think  that  these  incongruous  me- 
mentos had  been  gathered  together  as  a  lesson  to  living  greatness 
—  to  show  it,  even  in  the  moment  of  its  proudest  exaltation,  the 
neglect  and  dishonor  to  which  it  must  soon  arrive  ;  how  soon  that 
crown  which  encircles  its  brow  must  pass  away,  and  it  must  lie  down 
in  the  dust  and  disgraces  of  the  tomb,  and  be  trampled  upon  by  the 
feet  of  the  meanest  of  the  multitude.  For,  strange  to  tell,  even  the 
grave  is  here  no  longer  a  sanctuary.  There  is  a  shocking  levity  in 
some  natures,  which  leads  them  to  sport  with  awful  and  hallowed 
things ;  and  there  are  base  minds  which  delight  to  revenge  on  the 
illustrious  dead  the  abject  homage  and  grovelling  servility  which 
they  pay  to  the  living.  The  coffin  of  Edward  the  Confessor  has 
been  broken  open,  and  his  remains  despoiled  of  their  funereal  orna- 
ments ;  the  sceptre  has  been  stolen  from  the  hand  of  the  imperious 
Elizabeth,  and  the  effigy  of  Henry  the  Fifth  lies  headless.  Not  a 
royal  monument  but  bears  some  proof  how  false  and  fugitive  is  the 
homage  of  mankind.  Some  are  plundered,  sQme  mutilated,  some 
covered  with  ribaldry  and  insult  —  all  more  or  less  outraged  and 
dishonored. 

The  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly  streaming  through  the 
painted  windows  in  the  high  vaults  above  me  ;  the  lower  parts  of  the 
abbey  were  already  wrapped  in  the  obscurity  of  twilight.  The 
chapels  and  aisles  grew  darker  and  darker.  The  effigies  of  the 
kings  faded  into  shadows ;  the  marble  figures  of  the  monuments 
assumed  strange  shapes  in  the  uncertain  light ;  the  evening  breeze 
crept  through  the  aisles  like  the  cold  breath  of  the  grave  ;  and  even 
the  distant  footfall  of  a  verger,  traversing  the  Poets'  Corner,  had 
something  strange  and  dreary  in  its  sound.  I  slowly  retraced  my 
morning's  walk,  and  as  I  passed  out  at  the  portal  of  the  cloisters,  the 
door,  closing  with  a  jarring  noise  behind  me,  filled  the  whole  build- 
ing with  echoes. 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  my  mind  of  the  objects 
I  had  been  contemplating,  but  found  they  were  already  fallen  into 
indistinctness  and  confusion.  Names,  inscriptions,  trophies  had  all 
become  confounded  in  my  recollection,  though  I  had  scarcely  taken 
my  foot  from  off  the  threshold.  What,  thought  I,  is  this  vast  assem- 
blage of  sepulchres  but  a  treasury  of  humiliation,  a  huge  pile  of 
reiterated  homilies  on  the  emptiness  of  renown,  and  the  certainty 


IOO  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

of  oblivion  !  It  is,  indeed,  the  empire  of  Death  ;  his  great  shadowy 
palace,  where  he  sits  in  state,  mocking  at  the  relics  of  human  glory, 
and  spreading  dust  and  forgetfulness  on  the  monuments  of  princes. 
How  idle  a  boast,  after  all,  is  the  immortality  of  a  name  !  Time  is 
ever  silently  turning  over  his  pages  ;  we  are  too  much  engrossed  by 
the  story  of  the  present  to  think  of  the  characters  and  anecdotes 
that  gave  interest  to  the  past ;  and  each  age  is  a  volume  thrown 
aside  to  be  speedily  forgotten.  The  idol  of  to-day  pushes  the  hero 
of  yesterday  out  of  our  recollection,  and  will,  in  turn,  be  supplanted 
by  his  successor  of  to-morrow.  "  Our  fathers,"  says  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  "  find  their  graves  in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  us 
how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors." 

History  fades  into  fable  ;  fact  becomes  clouded  with  doubt  and 
controversy ;  the  inscription  moulders  from  the  tablet ;  the  statue 
falls  from  the  pedestal.  Columns,  arches,  pyramids,  what  are  they 
but  heaps  of  sand,  and  their  epitaphs  but  characters  written  in  the 
dust  ?  What  is  the  security  of  a  tomb,  or  the  perpetuity  of  an  em- 
balmment ?  The  remains  of  Alexander  the  Great  have  been  scat- 
tered to  the  wind,  and  his  empty  sarcophagus  is  now  the  mere  curi- 
osity of  a  museum.  "  The  Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cambyses  or 
time  hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth  ;  Mizraim  cures  wounds, 
and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams." 

What,  then,  is  to  insure  this  pile,  which  now  towers  above  me,  from 
sharing  the  fate  of  mightier  mausoleums  ?  The  time  must  come 
when  its  gilded  vaults,  which  now  spring  so  loftily,  shall  lie  in  rub- 
bish beneath  the  feet ;  when,  instead  of  the  sound  of  melody  and 
praise,  the  wind  shall  whistle  through  the  broken  arches,  and  the 
owl  hoot  from  the  shattered  tower  —  when  the  garish  sunbeam  shall 
break  into  these  gloomy  mansions  of  death,  and  the  ivy  twine  round 
the  fallen  column,  and  the  fox-glove  hang  its  blossoms  about  the 
nameless  urn,  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  dead.  Thus  man  passes  away  ; 
his  name  perishes  from  record  and  recollection  ;  his  history  is  as  a 
tale  that  is  told,  and  his  very  monument  becomes  a  ruin. 


[From  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow.] 
PORTRAIT  OF  THE   SCHOOLMASTER. 

IN  this  by-place  of  Nature  there  abode,  in  a  remote  period  of 
American  history,  that  is  to  say,  some  thirty  years  since,  a  worthy 
wight  of  the  name  of  Ichabod  Crane ;  who  sojourned,  or,  as  he  ex- 


WASHINGTON    IRVING.  IOI 

pressed  it,  "  tarried,"  in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the  purpose  of  instruct- 
ing the  children  of  the  vicinity.  He  was  a  native  of  Connecticut,  a 
state  which  supplies  the  Union  with  pioneers  for  the  mind  as  well 
as  for  the  forest,  and  sends  forth  yearly  its  legions  of  frontier  woods- 
men and  country  schoolmasters.  The  cognomen  of  Crane  was  not 
inapplicable  to  his  person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceedingly  lank,  with 
narrow  shoulders,  long  arms  and  legs,  hands  that  dangled  a  mile  out 
of  his  sleeves,  feet  that  might  have  served  for  shovels,  and  his  whole 
frame  most  loosely  hung  together. 

His  head  was  small,  and  flat  at  top,  with  huge  ears,  large  green 
glassy  eyes,  and  a  long  snipe  nose,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  weather- 
cock, perched  upon  his  spindle  neck,  to  tell  which  way  the  wind 
blew.  To  see  him  striding  along  the  profile  of  a  hill  on  a  windy  day, 
with  his  clothes  bagging  and  fluttering  about  him,  one  might  have 
mistaken  him  for  the  genius  of  famine  descending  upon  the  earth, 
or  some  scarecrow  eloped  from  a  cornfield. 

His  school-house  was  a  low  building  of  one  large  room,  rudely 
constructed  of  logs,  the  windows  partly  glazed  and  partly  patched 
with  leaves  of  old  copy-books.  It  was  most  ingeniously  secured,  at 
vacant  hours,  by  a  withe  twisted  in  the  handle  of  the  door,  and  stakes 
set  against  the  window-shutters,  so  that,  though  a  thief  might  get  in 
with  perfect  ease,  he  would  find  some  embarrassment  in  getting  out  — 
an  idea  most  probably  borrowed  by  the  architect,  Yost  Van  Houten, 
from  the  mystery  of  an  eel-pot.  The  school-house  stood  in  a  rather 
lonely  but  pleasant  situation,  just  at  the  foot  of  a  woody  hill,  with  a 
brook  running  close  by,  and  a  formidable  birch  tree  growing  at  one 
end  of  it. 

From  hence  the  low  murmur  of  his  pupils'  voices,  conning  over 
their  lessons,  might  be  heard  in  a  drowsy  summer's  day,  like  the 
hum  of  a  bee-hive,  interrupted  now  and  then  by  the  authoritative 
voice  of  the  master  in  the  tone  of  menace  or  command,  or,  peradven- 
ture,  by  the  appalling  sound  of  the  birch  as  he  urged  some  tardy 
loiterer  along  the  flowery  path  of  knowledge.  Truth  to  say,  he  was 
a  conscientious  man,  and  ever  bore  in  mind  the  golden  maxim, 
"  Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child."  Ichabod  Crane's  scholars  cer- 
tainly were  not  spoiled. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was  the  singing-master  of 
the  neighborhood,  and  picked  up  many  bright  shillings  by  instructing 
the  young  folks  in  psalmody.  It  was  a  matter  of  no  little  vanity  to 
him,  on  Sundays,  to  take  his  station  in  front  of  the  church  gallery, 
with  a  band  of  chosen  singers,  where,  in  his  own  mind,  he  completely 


IO2       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

carried  away  the  palm  from  the  parson.  Certain  it  is,  his  voice  re- 
sounded far  above  all  the  rest  of  the  congregation,  and  there  are 
peculiar  quavers  still  to  be  heard  in  that  church,  and  which  may 
even  be  heard  half  a  mile  off,  quite  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  mill- 
pond,  on  a  still  Sunday  morning,  which  are  said  to  be  legitimately 
descended  from  the  nose  of  Ichabod  Crane. 

Thus,  by  divers  little  makeshifts  in  that  ingenious  way  which  is 
commonly  denominated  "  by  hook  and  by  crook,"  the  worthy  peda- 
gogue got  on  tolerably  enough,  and  was  thought,  by  all  who  under- 
stood nothing  of  the  labor  of  headwork,  to  have  a  wonderfully  easy 
time  of  it. 


A   DUTCH    HEIRESS. 

AMONG  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled,  one  evening  in  each 
week,  to  receive  his  instructions  in  psalmody,  was  Katrina  Van  Tas- 
sel, the  daughter  and  only  child  of  a  substantial  Dutch  farmer.  She 
was  a  blooming  lass  of  fresh  eighteen ;  plump  as  a  partridge,  ripe 
and  melting  and  rosy-cheeked  as  one  of  her  father's  peaches,  and 
universally  famed  not  merely  for  her  beauty,  but  her  vast  expecta- 
tions. She  was  withal  a  little  of  a  coquette,  as  might  be  perceived 
even  in  her  dress,  which  was  a  mixture  of  ancient  and  modern  fash- 
ions, as  most  suited  to  set  off  her  charms.  She  wore  the  ornaments 
of  pure  yellow  gold,  which  her  great-great-grandmother  had  brought 
over  from  Saardam,  the  tempting  stomacher  of  the  olden  time,  and 
withal  a  provokingly  short  petticoat,  to  display  the  prettiest  foot  and 
ankle  in  the  country  round. 


ANTICIPATIONS. 

THE  pedagogue's  mouth  watered  as  he  looked  upon  this  sumptuous 
promise  of  luxurious  winter  fare.  In  his  devouring  mind's  eye,  he 
pictured  to  himself  every  roasting-pig  running  about  with  a  pudding 
in  his  belly,  and  an  apple  in  his  mouth  ;  the  pigeons  were  snugly 
put  to  bed  in  a  comfortable  pie,  and  tucked  in  with  a  coverlet  of 
crust ;  the  geese  were  swimming  in  their  own  gravy  ;  and  the  ducks 
pairing  cosily  in  dishes  like  snug  married  couples,  with  a  decent 
competency  of  onion  sauce.  In  the  porkers  he  saw  carved  out  the 
future  sleek  side  of  bacon,  and  juicy,  relishing  ham  ;  not  a  turkey 
but  he  beheld  daintily  trussed  up,  with  its  gizzard  under  its  wing, 
and,  peradventurej  a  necklace  of  savory  sausages ;  and  even  bright 


WASHINGTON    IRVING.  IO3 

chanticleer  himself  lay  sprawling  on  his  back,  in  a  side  dish,  with 
uplifted  claws,  as  if  craving  that  quarter  which  his  chivalrous  spirit 
disdained  to  ask  while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this,  and  as  he  rolled  his 
great  green  eyes  over  the  fat  meadow  lands,  the  rich  fields  of  wheat, 
of  rye,  of  buckwheat,  and  Indian  corn,  and  the  orchards  burdened 
with  ruddy  fruit,  which  surrounded  the  warm  tenement  of  Van  Tas- 
sel, his  heart  yearned  after  the  damsel  who  was  to  inherit  these  do- 
mains, and  his  imagination  expanded  with  the  idea  how  they  might 
be  readily  turned  into  cash,  and  the  money  invested  in  immense 
tracts  of  wild  land  and  shingle  palaces  in  the  wilderness.  Nay,  his 
busy  fancy  already  realized  his  hopes,  and  presented  to  him  the 
blooming  Katrina,  with  a  whole  family  of  children,  mounted  on  the 
top  of  a  wagon  loaded  with  household  trumpery,  with  pots  and  ket- 
tles dangling  beneath  ;  and  he  beheld  himself  bestriding  a  pacing 
mare,  with  a  colt  at  her  heels,  setting  out  for  Kentucky,  Tennessee, 
or  the  Lord  knows  where. 


A  LANDSCAPE. 

THUS  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet  thoughts  and  "  sugared 
suppositions,"  he  journeyed  along  the  sides  of  a  range  of  hills  which 
look  out  upon  some  of  the  goodliest  scenes  of  the  mighty  Hudson. 
The  sun  gradually  wheeled  his  broad  disk  down  into  the  west.  The 
wide  bosom  of  the  Tappan  Zee  lay  motionless  and  glassy,  excepting 
that  here  and  there  a  gentle  undulation  waved  and  prolonged  the 
blue  shadow  of  the  distant  mountain.  A  few  amber  clouds  floated 
in  the  sky,  without  a  breath  of  air  to  move  them.  The  horizon  was 
of  a  fine  golden  tint,  changing  gradually  into  a  pure  apple-green, 
and  from  that  into  the  deep  blue  of  the  mid-heaven. 

A  slanting  ray  lingered  on  the  woody  crests  of  the  precipices  that 
overhung  some  parts  of  the  river,  giving  greater  depth  to  the  dark- 
gray  and  purple  of  their  rocky  sides.  A  sloop  was  loitering  in  the 
distance,  dropping  slowly  down  with  the  tide,  her  sail  hanging  use- 
lessly against  the  mast ;  and  as  the  reflection  of  the  sky  gleamed 
along  the  still  water,  it  seemed  as  if  the  vessel  was  suspended  in 
the  air. 


104  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


JOHN   PIERPONT. 


John  Pierpont  was  born  in  Litchfield,  Conn.,  April  6,  1785.  He  received  his  education 
at  Yale  College,  graduating  in  1804,  and  then  passed  four  years  as  a  teacher  in  South 
Carolina.  He  studied  law  in  the  then  famous  school  at  Litchfield,  and  commenced 
practice  at  Newburyport,  Mass.  He  had  neither  the  means  nor  the  inclination  to  wait  for 
the  slow  tide  of  success  in  his  laborious  profession,  and  was  induced  to  go  into  mercantile 
business  with  his  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Lord,  and  John  Neal.  Though  the  firm  prosper«d 
for  a  while,  the  rapid  decline  in  prices  after  the  war  of  1812  swamped  their  little  capital  in  a 
few  months.  Mr.  Pierpont  then  studied  for  the  ministry,  and  was  settled  over  Hollis  Street 
Church,  in  Boston.  His  ardent  advocacy  of  the  temperance  and  anti-slavery  causes  dis- 
pleased a  portion  of  his  congregation,  and  at  length,  in  1845,  he  asked  for  a  dismissal,  and 
removed  to  Troy,  N.  Y.  He  remained  in  his  new  field  of  labor  four  years,  when  he  accepted 
a  call  from  a  church  in  Medford,  Mass.  In  his  later  years  he  became  a  spiritualist,  and  no 
longer  acted  with  his  former  Unitarian  brethren.  He  was  employed  for  a  few  years  in  the 
Treasury  Department  at  Washington,  in  making  a  digest  of  decisions.  He  died  at  Medford, 
August  27,  1866. 

He  was  a  man  of  great  talent  in  many  directions.  He  had  great  mechanical  skill,  es- 
pecially in  engraving  and  in  turning  delicate  figures.  One  of  his  inventions,  says  John 
Neal,  "the  'Pierpont  or  Doric  Stove,'  was  a  bit  of  concrete  philosophy  —  a  cast-iron  syl- 
logism of  itself,  so  classically  just  in  its  proportions,  and  so  eminently  characteristic,  as  to  be 
a  type  of  the  author."  Mr.  Neal  thinks  that  his  first  choice,  the  law,  would  have  been  his 
true  sphere,  and  that  he  would  have  been  a  leader  in  the  profession  if  he  had  been  willing  to 
wait.  His  first  poem,  The  Portrait,  written  at  Newburyport,  has  some  vigorous  lines, 
though  in  palpable  imitation  of  the  style  of  Campbell.  The  Airs  of  Palestine,  published  in 
Baltimore  after  his  mercantile  failure,  contains  many  beautiful  passages.  Of  hymns  for 
ordinations  and  dedications  he  wrote  a  great  number  that  still  hold  their  place  in  the  collec- 
tions for  public  worship.  He  wrote  also  a  great  many  odes  for  various  occasions,  as  well  as 
poems  upon  reformatory  subjects. 

Few  of  his  pieces  have  the  completeness  that  belongs  to  enduring  works  ;  but  in  almost  all 
of  them  there  are  traces  of  the  true  fire,  and  here  and  there  are  couplets  that  any  poet  might 
be  proud  to  own. 

Mr.  Pierpont  was  tall  and  vigorous  in  person,  very  animated  in  conversation,  and  full  of 
an  ultra-apostolic  zeal.  He  was  thoroughly  honest,  fearless,  and  outspoken.  With  more 
suavity  and  more  tact  he  would  have  had  a  pleasanter  pathway  through  the  world  ;  but  then 
he  would  not  have  been  John  Pierpont. 

His  life-long  friend,  John  Neal,  contributed  an  interesting  brief  memoir  of  him  to  the 
Atlantic  Monthly,  December,  1866. 


PASSING  AWAY.  —  A  DREAM. 

WAS  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell 

That  came  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming  ear, 

Like  the  silvery  tones  of  a  fairy's  shell 
That  he  winds,  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and  clear, 

When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  together  asleep, 

And  the  Moon  and  the  Fairy  are  watching  the  deep, 

She  dispensing  her  silvery  light, 

And  he  his  notes  as  silvery  quite, 


JOHN    PIERPONT. 

While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his  oar, 
To  catch  the  music  that  comes  from  the  shore  ? 
Hark !  the  notes,  on  my  ear  that  play, 
Are  set  to  words  :  as  they  float,  they  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away !  " 

But  no  ;  it  was  not  a  fairy's  shell, 

Blown  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and  clear  ; 
Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  bell, 
Striking  the  hour,  that  filled  my  ear, 
As  I  lay  in  my  dream  ;  yet  was  it  a  chime 
That  told  of  the  flow  of  the  stream  of  time. 
For  a  beautiful  clock  from  the  ceiling  hung, 
And  a  plump  little  girl,  for  a  pendulum,  swung 
(As  you've  sometimes  seen,  in  a  little  ring 
That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a  canary  bird  swing) ; 
And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding  bouquet, 
And,  as  she  enjoyed  it,  she  seemed  to  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  ! " 

O,  how  bright  were  the  wheels,  that  told 

Of  the  lapse  of  time,  as  they  moved  round  slow ; 
And  the  hands,  as  they  swept  o'er  the  dial  of  gold, 

Seemed  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 
And  lo  !  she  had  changed  :  in  a  few  short  hours 
Her  bouquet  had  become  a  garland  of  flowers, 
That  she  held  in  her  outstretched  hands,  and  flung 
This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,  swung 
In  the  fulness  of  grace  and  of  womanly  pride, 
That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride  ; 
Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest  day, 
In  the  same  sweet  voice  I  heard  her  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  ! " 

While  I  gazed  at  that  fair  one's  cheek,  a  shade 
Of  thought,  or  care,  stole  softly  over, 

Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer's  day  made, 
Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming  cloven 

The  rose  yet  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its  flush 

Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush  ; 


IO6  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light  on  the  wheels, 
That  marched  so  calmly  round  above  her, 

Was  a  little  dimmed,  —  as  when  Evening  steals 

Upon  Noon's  hot  face.     Yet  one  couldn't  but  love  her, 

For  she  looked  like  a  mother  whose  first  babe  lay 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  as  she  swung  all  day ; 

And  she  seemed,  in  the  same  silver  tone,  to  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !  " 

While  yet  I  looked,  what  a  change  there  came  ! 

Her  eye  was  quenched,  and  her  cheek  was  wan : 
Stooping  and  staffed  was  her  withered  frame, 

Yet,  just  as  busily,  swung  she  on  ; 
The  garland  beneath  her  had  fallen  to  dust ; 
The  wheels  above  her  were  eaten  with  rust ; 
The  hands,  that  over  the  dial  swept, 
Grew  crooked  and  tarnished,  but  on  they  kept, 
And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 
From  the  shrivelled  lips  of  the  toothless  crone 
(Let  me  never  forget  till  my  dying  day 
The  tone  or  the  burden  of  her  lay), 

"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !  " 


HYMN. 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  OPENING  OF   THE   INDEPENDENT  CONGREGATIONAL  CHURCH  IN 
BARTON  SQUARE,  SALEM,  DECEMBER  7,  1824. 

O  THOU,  to  whom  in  ancient  time 

The  lyre  of  Hebrew  bards  was  strung, 
Whom  kings  adored  in  song  sublime, 

And  prophets  praised  with  glowing  tongue,  — 

Not  now  on  Zion's  height,  alone, 

Thy  favored  worshipper  may  dwell ; 
Nor  where,  at  sultry  noon,  thy  Son 

Sat,  weary,  by  the -patriarch's  well. 

From  every  place  below  the  skies, 

The  grateful  song,  the  fervent  prayer,  — 

The  incense  of  the  heart,  —  may  rise 
To  Heaven,  and  find  acceptance  there. 


RICHARD    HENRY    DANA.  IO/ 

In  this  thy  house,  whose  doors  we  now 

For  social  worship  first  Unfold, 
To  thee  the  suppliant  throng  shall  bow, 

While  circling  years  on  years  are  rolled. 

To  thee  shall  Age,  with  snowy  hair, 

And  Strength  and  Beauty,  bend  the  knee, 
And  Childhood  lisp,  with  reverent  air, 

Its  praises  and  its  prayers  to  thee. 

O  Thou,  to  whom  in  ancient  time 

The  lyre  of  prophet  bards  was  strung, 
To  thee,  at  last,  in  every  clime 

Shall  temples  rise  and  praise  be  sung. 


RICHARD   HENRY   DANA. 

Richard  Henry  Dana  was  born  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  November  15,  1787.  He  remained 
three  years  in  Harvard  College,  and  afterwards  finished  the  usual  collegiate  education  at 
Newport,  R.  I.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1811.  He  did  not  remain  in  the  profession 
long,  being  drawn  by  his  natural  tastes  into  literary  pursuits.  He  aided  in  establishing  the 
North  American  Review  in  1814,  and  in  1818  was  one  of  its  editors.  In  1821-2  he  pub- 
lished the  Idle  Man,  in  numbers.  His  principal  poem,  The  Buccaneer,  appeared  in  1827, 
and  was  recognized  as  a  production  of  originality  and  power.  His  collected  works  in  prose 
and  verse  were  published  in  two  volumes  in  1850.  He  edited  the  works  and  wrote  the 
memoir  of  his  brother-in-law,  Allston.  He  has  also  written  a  series  of  lectures  upon 
Shakespeare,  which  have  been  delivered  in  many  of  our  principal  cities.  Mr.  Dana  is  still 
living  in  a  serene  old  age,  passing  his  summers  at  his  sea-side  home  in  Manchester, 
Mass.,  and  his  winters  in  Boston.  He  is  seldom  seen  now  in  public,  but  the  frequenters 
of  classical  concerts  and  of  Emerson's  lectures  will  long  remember  his  intellectual  features 
and  long,  silvery  hair. 

The  works  of  Mr.  Dana  are  not  numerous,  nor  popular.  His  ideas,  whether  in  poems  or 
essays,  are  addressed  to  the  thinking  few,  and  have  undoubtedly  done  mu<jh  to  mould  the 
public  taste.  His  literary  life  began  when  the  rhymed  couplets  of  Pope  were  thought  to  be 
the  highest  form  of  poetical  expression  ;  he  has  lived  to  see  the  decline  of  that  artificial 
school,  and  the  rise  of  the  nobler  philosophical  poetry  of  Wordsworth  and  his  successors. 

INTRODUCTORY  STANZAS  OF  THE  BUCCANEER. 

THE  island  lies  nine  leagues  away. 

Along  its  solitary  shore, 
Of  craggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 

No  sound  but  ocean's  roar, 

Save,  where  the  bold,  wild  sea-bird  makes  her  home, 
Her  shrill  cry  coming  through  the  sparkling  foam. 


IO8  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest, 

And  on  the  glassy,  heaving  sea 
The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast, 

Sits  swinging  silently, 
How  beautiful  !  no  ripples  break  the  reach, 
And  silvery  waves  go  noiseless  up  the  beach. 

And  inland  rests  the  green,  warm  dell ; 

The  brook  comes  tinkling  down  its  side  ; 
From  out  the  trees  the  Sabbath  bell 

Rings  cheerful,  far  and  wide, 
Mingling  its  sound  with  Heatings  of  the  flocks, 
That  feed  about  the  vale  amongst  the  rocks. 

Nor  holy  bell  nor  pastoral  bleat 

In  former  days  within  the  vale  ; 
Flapped  in  the  bay  the  pirate's  sheet ; 

Curses  were  on  the  gale  : 

Rich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murdered  men  ; 
Pirate  and  wrecker  kept  their  revels  then. 

But  calm,  low  voices,  words  of  grace, 

Now  slowly  fall  upon  the  ear  ; 
A  quiet  look  is  in  each  face, 

Subdued  and  holy  fear ; 
Each  motion's  gentle  ;  all  is  kindly  done. 
Come,  listen,  how  from  crime  this  isle  was '  won. 


THE   LITTLE   BEACH   BIRD. 

THOU  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice  ? 
Why,  with  that  boding  cry 
O'er  the  waves  dost  thou  fly  ? 
O,  rather,  bird,  with  me 
Through  the  fair  land  rejoice  ! 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea  ; 


RICHARD    HENRY   DANA. 

Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us.     Thy  wail  — 
What  does  it  bring  to  me  ? 

Thou  call'st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 
Restless  and  sad ;  as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  motion,  and  with  roar, 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 
One  spirit  did  ye  urge  — 
The  Mystery  —  the  Word. 

Of  thousands  thou  both  sepulchre  and  pall, 
Old  Ocean,  art !     A  requiem  o'er  the  dead, 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells  — 
Tells  of  man's  woe  and  fall, 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 
Thy  spirit  never  more  ; 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore, 
For  gladness  and  the  light 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 


[From  the  Husband's  and  Wife's  Grave.] 

O,  LISTEN,  man  ! 

A  voice  within  us  speaks  that  startling  word, 
"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die  !  "     Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  unto  our  souls  ;  according  harps, 
By  angel  fingers  touched  when  the  mild  stars 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality  ; 
Thick  clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain, 
The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 
O,  listen,  ye,  our  spirits  ;  drink  it  in 
From  all  the  air  !     'Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight ; 


IIO  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

'Tis  floating  'midst  day's  setting  glories  ;  Night, 

Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  gentle  step 

Comes  to  our  bed,  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears. 

Night  and  the  dawn,  bright  day  and  thoughtful  eve, 

All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 

So  one  vast  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 

By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 

Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee. 

The  dying  hear  it ;  and  as  sounds  of  earth 

Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 

To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 


[From  Domestic  Life,] 
CHILDREN. 

"  HEAVEN  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy,"  says  Wordsworth.  And 
who  of  us  that  is  not  too  good  to  be  conscious  of  his  own  vices, 
who  has  not  felt  rebuked  and  humbled  under  the  clear  and  open 
countenance  of  a  child  ?  Who  that  has  not  felt  his  impurities  foul 
upon  him  in  the  presence  of  a  sinless  child  ?  These  feelings  make 
the  best  lesson  that  can  be  taught  a  man,  and  tell  him,  in  a  way 
which  all  else  he  has  read  or  heard  never  could,  how  paltry  is  all  the 
show  of  intellect  compared  with  a  pure  and  good  heart.  He  that 
will  humble  himself,  and  go  to  a  child  for  instruction,  will  come  away 
a  wiser  man. 

If  children  can  make  us  wiser,  they  surely  can  make  us  better. 
There  is  no  one  more  to  be  envied  than  a  good-natured  man  watch- 
ing the  workings  of  children's  minds,  or  overlooking  their  play, 
their  eagerness,  curious  about  everything,  making  out  by  a  quick 
imagination  what  they  see  but  a  part  of  —  their  fanciful  combina- 
tions and  magic  inventions,  creating  out  of  ordinary  circumstances 
and  the  common  things  which  surround  them,  strange  events  and 
little  worlds,  and  these  all  working  in  mystery  to  form  matured 
thought,  is  study  enough  for  the  most  acute  minds,  and  should 
teach  us,  also,  not  too  officiously,  to  regulate  what  we  so  little  under- 
stand. The  still  musing  and  deep  abstraction  in  which  they  some- 
times sit,  affect  us  as  a  playful  mockery  of  older  heads.  These  little 
philosophers  have  no  foolish  system,  with  all  its  pride  and  jargon, 
confusing  their  brains.  Theirs  is  the  natural  movement  of  the  soul, 


RICHARD    HENRY    DANA.  Ill 

intense  with  new  life,  and  busy  after  truth,  working  to  some  purpose, 
though  without  a  noise. 

When  children  are  lying  about,  seemingly  idle  and  dull,  we,  who 
have  become  case-hardened  by  time  and  satiety,  forget  that  they  are 
all  sensation,  that  their  outstretched  bodies  are  drinking  in  from 
the  common  sun  and  air,  that  every  sound  is  taken  note  of  by  the 
ear,  that  every  floating  shadow  and  passing  form  come  and  touch  at 
the  sleepy  eye,  and  that  the  little  circumstances  and  the  material 
world  about  them  make  their  best  school,  and  will  be  the  instructors 
and  formers  of  their  characters  for  life. 

And  it  is  delightful  to  look  on  and  see  how  busily  the  whole  acts, 
with  its  countless  parts  fitted  to  each  other,  and  moving  in  harmony. 
There  are  none  of  us  who  have  stolen  softly  behind  a  child  when  la- 
boring in  a  sunny  corner  digging  a  liliputian  well,  or  fencing  in  a 
six-inch  barn-yard,  and  listened  to  his  soliloquies  and  his  dialogues 
with  some  imaginary  being,  without  our  hearts  being  touched  by  it. 
Nor  have  we  observed  the  flush  which  crossed  his  face  when  finding 
himself  betrayed,  without  seeing  in  it  the  delicacy  and  propriety  of 
the  after  man. 

A  man  may  have  many  vices  upon  him,  and  have  walked  long  in 
a  bad  course,  yet  if  he  has  a  love  for  children,  and  can  take  pleasure 
in  their  talk  and  play,  there  is  something  still  left  in  him  to  act  upon 
—  something  which  can  love  simplicity  and  truth.  I  have  seen  one 
in  whom  some  low  vice  had  become  a  habit,  make  himself  the  play- 
thing of  a  set  of  riotous  children,  with  as  much  delight  on  his  coun- 
tenance as  if  nothing  but  goodness  had  ever  been  expressed  in  it ; 
and  have  felt  as  much  of  kindness  and  sympathy  towards  him  as  I 
have  of  revolting  towards  another  who  has  gone  through  life  with 
all  due  propriety,  with  a  cold  and  supercilious  bearing  towards 
children,  which  makes  them  shrinking  and  still.  I  have  known  one 
like  the  latter  attempt  to  court  an  open-hearted  child,  who  would 
draw  back  with  an  instinctive  aversion  ;  and  I  have  felt  as  if  there 
were  a  curse  upon  him.  Better  to  be  driven  out  from  among  men 
than  to  be  disliked  of  children. 


112  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


JAMES    FENIMORE    COOPER. 
/ 

James  Fenimore  Cooper  was  born  in  Burlington,  N.  J.,  September  15,  1789.  His  father, 
Judge  William  Cooper,  became  possessed  of  large  tracts  of  land  in  the  State  of  New  York, 
on  the  shores  of  Lake  Otsego,  and  removed  there  during  the  infancy  of  our  author.  The 
prominent  position  he  occupied  as  a  gentleman  of  wealth,  culture,  and  energy  in  a  new 
country,  is  brought  to  view  in  the  character  of  Judge  Temple,  in  The  Pioneers.  Young 
Cooper  was  sent  to  Yale  College  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  but  he  does  not  appear  to  have 
made  any  figure  there,  and  at  the  end  of  his  third  year  he  entered  the  United  States  navy 
as  a  common  sailor.  After  two  years'  service  he  was  promoted  to  the  rank  of  midshipman, 
and  eventually  to  that  of  lieutenant.  Upon  his  marriage,  in  1811,  he  left  the  service,  and 
soon  after  commenced  his  career  as  an  author. 

The  novel-reading  public  had  been  accustomed  to  depend  wholly  upon  foreign  literature ; 
no  works  of  fiction  worth  reading  had  been  produced  in  the  United  States,  except  the  pow- 
erful but  intensely  disagreeable  novels  of  Charles  Brockden  Brown.  The  early  home  of 
Cooper  had  been  upon  the  border  of  the  wilderness ;  he  knew  Indians  and  hunters,  and 
was  familiar  with  all  the  incidents  of  frontier  life.  During  his  term  of  naval  service  he  had 
acquired  a  thorough  knowledge  of  sailors  and  of  nautical  affairs.  When  a  fortunate  accident 
turned  his  attention  to  writing,  his  mind  was  stored  with  vivid  pictures  of  the  woods  and 
of  the  scenery  of  the  sea  ;  and  he  produced  in  rapid  succession  a  series  of  fascinating  novels, 
abounding  in  stirring  incidents,  and  presenting  some  characters  new  to  the  world  oT  fiction. 
The  effect  upon  the  public  mind  was  prodigious ;  the  novels  were  received  with  an  enthu- 
siasm of  which  the  present  generation  can  have  but  a  faint  idea.  His  works  are  too  numer- 
ous to  be  mentioned  in  detail ;  in  any  one  of  the  last  edition,  in  thirty-two  volumes,  can  be 
seen  a  complete  list.  The  most  popular  sea  novels  are  The  Pilot  and  The  Red  Rover.  The 
Spy,  a  tale  of  the  revolutionary  war,  is  his  best  work,  and  the  one  by  which  he  first  be- 
came known.  The  tales  of  frontier  life  are  numerous,  and  nearly  all  excellent :  The  Pio- 
neers, The  Deerslayer,  The  Pathfinder,  The  Prairie,  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans,  are  among 
the  best.  There  seems  to  be  little  falling  off  in  the  popularity  of  Cooper,  notwithstanding 
the  advent  of  the  great  novelists  of  later  date.  His  tales  have  a  permanent  charm,  since  they 
are  based  upon  nature,  and  are  constructed  with  great  skill.  In  some  elements,  however, 
their  merit  is  unequal :  his  original  characters  are  not  numerous,  and  the  same  people,  under 
different  names,  reappear  in  successive  stories  as  in  a  masquerade ;  besides,  as  Lowell  says,  — 

"  The  women  he  draws,  from  one  model  don't  vary ; 
All  sappy  as  maples,  and  flat  as  a  prairie." 

If  Cooper  had  been  content  to  please  his  countrymen  with  his  delightful  fictions,  his  life 
would  have  been  far  happier.  But  he  was  a  man  of  decided  opinions,  and  had  plenty  of  the 
talent  for  criticism,  as  well  as  the  courage  to  present  his  strictures  in  a  blunt  way.  In  Home- 
ward Bound,  and  Home  as  Found,  and  other  works,  he  commented  upon  blemishes  in  our 
national  character  with  so  little  reserve  as  to  draw  upon  him  a  storm  of  newspaper  abuse. 
He  retorted  by  prosecutions  for  libel,  and  at  one  time  had  about  twenty  suits  on  hand. 
He  generally  gained  his  cases,  but  the  results  were  barren  of  honor  or  profit.  His  History 
of  the  United  States  Navy  also  caused  a  controversy,  because  it  was  alleged  he  had  not 
been  quite  just  in  his  allotment  of  praise  to  the  different  commanders. 

He  died  at  Cooperstown,  New  York,  September  14,  1851. 

Cooper  was  a  tall  and  robust  man,  very  animated  in  expression,  and,  though  always  con- 
scious of  his  birth  and  social  rank,  showed  a  generous  and  kindly  nature. 

The  reader  must  make  allowances  for  the  difficulty  of  giving  an  adequate  idea  of  his  power 
as  a  writer  by  the  presentation  of  detached  scenes. 


JAMES    FENIMORE    COOPER.  113 

[From  The  Pilot.] 
A   CHASE   AND   BRUSH   IN   THE   ENGLISH   CHANNEL. 

AN  involuntary  cry  of  pleasure  burst  from  the  lips  of  Katherine, 
as  she  followed  his  directions,  and  first  beheld  the  frigate  through 
the  medium  of  the  fluctuating  colors  of  the  morning.  The  undulat- 
ing outlines  of  the  lazy  ocean,  which  rose  and  fell  heavily  against  the 
bright  boundary  of  the  heavens,  was  without  any  relief  to  distract 
the  eye  as  it  fed  eagerly  on  the  beauties  of  the  solitary  ship.  She 
was  riding  sluggishly  on  the  long  seas,  with  only  two  of  her  lower 
and  smaller  sails  spread,  to  hold  her  in  command  ;  but  her  tall  masts 
and  heavy  yards  were  painted  against  the  fiery  sky  in  strong  lines 
of  deep  black,  while  even  the  smallest  cord  in  the  mazes  of  her  rig- 
ging might  be  distinctly  traced,  stretching  from  spar  to  spar  with  the 
beautiful  accuracy  of  a  picture.  At  moments,  when  her  huge  hull 
rose  on  a  billow,  and  was  lifted  against  the  background  of  sky,  its 
shape  and  dimensions  were  brought  into  view  ;  but  these  transient 
glimpses -were  soon  lost  as  it  settled  into  the  trough,  leaving  the  waving 
spars  bowing  gracefully  towards  the  waters,  as  if  about  to  follow  the 
vessel  into  the  bosom  of  the  deep.  As  a  clearer  light  gradually  stole 
on  the  senses,  the  delusion  of  colors  and  distance  vanished  together, 
and  when  a  flood  of  day  preceded  the  immediate  appearance  of  the 
sun,  the  ship  became  plainly  visible  within  a  mile  of  the  cutter,  her 
black  hull  checkered  with  ports,  and  her  high,  tapering  masts  exhib- 
iting their  proper  proportions  and  hues. 

"The  fog  rises!"  cried  Griffith;  "give  us  but  the  wind  for  an 
hour,  and  we  shall  run  her  out  of  gun-shot." 

"These  ninetys  are  very  fast  off  the  wind,"  returned  the  captain, 
in  a  low  tone,  that  was  intended  only  for  the  ears  of  his  first  lieuten- 
ant and  the  pilot ;  "and  we  shall  have  a  struggle  for  it." 

The  quick  eye  of  the  stranger  was  glancing  over  the  movements 
of  his  enemy,  while  he  answered,  — 

"  He  finds  we  have  the  heels  of  him  already  !  he  is  making  ready, 
and  we  shall  be  fortunate  to  escape  a  broadside  !  Let  her  yaw  a 
little,  Mr.  Griffith  ;  touch  her  lightly  with  the  helm  ;  if  we  are  raked, 
sir,  we  are  lost !  " 

The  captain  sprang  on  the  taffrail  of  his  ship  with  the  activity  of 
a  younger  man,  and  in  an  instant  he  perceived  the  truth  of  the  other's 
conjecture. 

Both  vessels  now  ran  for  a  few  minutes,  keenly  watching  each 
8 


114       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

other's  motions,  like  two  skilful  combatants  ;  the  English  ship  mak- 
ing slight  deviations  from  the  line  of  her  course,  and  then,  as  her 
movements  were  anticipated  by  the  otner,  turning  as  cautiously  in 
the  opposite  direction,  until  a  sudden  and  wide  sweep  of  her  huge 
bows  told  the  Americans  plainly  on  which  tack  to  expect  her.  Cap- 
tain Munson  made  a  silent  but  impressive  gesture  with  his  arm,  as 
if  the  crisis  were  too  important  for  speech,  which  indicated  to  the 
watchful  Griffith  the  way  he  wished  the  frigate  sheered,  to  avoid  the 
weight  of  the  impending  danger.  Both  vessels  whirled  swiftly  up 
to  the  wind,  with  their  heads  towards  the  land ;  and  as  the  huge 
black  side  of  the  three-decker,  checkered  with  its  triple  batteries, 
frowned  full  upon  her  foe,  it  belched  forth  a  flood  of  fire  and  smoke, 
accompanied  by  a  bellowing  roar,  that  mocked  the  surly  meanings 
of  the  sleeping  ocean.  The  nerves  of  the  bravest  man  in  the  frigate 
contracted  their  fibres  as  the  hurricane  of  iron  hurtled  by  them,  and 
each  eye  appeared  to  gaze  in  stupid  wonder,  as  if  tracing  the  flight 
of  the  swift  engines  of  destruction.  But  the  voice  of  Captain  Mun- 
son was  heard  in  the  din,  shouting,  while  he  waved  his  hat  earnestly 
in  the  required  direction,  "  Meet  her  !  meet  her  with  the  helm,  boy  ! 
meet  her,  Mr.  Griffith,  meet  her  !  " 

Griffith  had  so  far  anticipated  this  movement  as  to  have  already 
ordered  the  head  of  the  frigate  to  be  turned  in  its  former  course, 
when,  struck  by  the  unearthly  cry  of  the  last  tones  uttered  by  his 
commander,  he  bent  his  head,  and  beheld  the  venerable  seaman 
driven  through  the  air,  his  hat  still  waving,  his  gray  hair  floating  in 
the  wind,  and  his  eye  set  in  the  wild  look  of  death. 

The  ship  which  the  American  frigate  had  now  to  oppose,  was  a 
vessel  of  near  her  own  size  and  equipage ;  and  when  Griffith  looked 
at  her  again,  he  perceived  that  she  had  made  her  preparations  to 
assert  her  equality  in  manful  fight. 

Her  sails  had  been  gradually  reduced  to  the  usual  quantity,  and, 
by  certain  movements  on  her  decks,  the  lieutenant  and  his  constant 
attendant,  the  pilot,  well  understood  that  she  only  wanted  to  lessen 
her  distance  a  few  hundred  yards  to  begin  the  action. 

"  Now  spread  everything,"  whispered  the  stranger. 

Griffith  applied  the  trumpet  to  his  mouth,  and  shouted,  in  a  voice 
that  was  carried  even  to  his  enemy,  "Let  fall  —  out  with  your  booms 
—  sheet  home  —  hoist  away  of  everything  !  " 

The  inspiring  cry  was  answered  by  a  universal  bustle.  Fifty  met 
flew  out  on  the  dizzy  heights  of  the  different  spars,  while  broad  sheets 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  11$ 

of  canvas  rose  as  suddenly  along  the  masts,  as  if  some  mighty  bird 
were  spreading  its  wings.  The  Englishman  instantly  perceived  his 
mistake,  and  he  answered  the  artifice  by  a  roar  of  artillery.  Griffith 
watched  the  effects  of  the  broadside  with  an  absorbing  interest  as 
the  shot  whistled  above  his  head  ;  but  when  he  perceived  his  masts 
untouched,  and  the  few  unimportant  ropes  only  that  were  cut,  he 
replied  to  the  uproar  with  a  burst  of  pleasure. 

A  few  men  were,  however,  seen  clinging  with  wild  frenzy  to  the 
cordage,  dropping  from  rope  to  rope,  like  wounded  birds  fluttering 
through  a  tree,  until  they  fell  heavily  into  the  ocean,  the  sullen  ship 
sweeping  by  them  in  a  cold  indifference.  At  the  next  instant  the  spars 
and  masts  of  their  enemy  exhibited  a  display  of  men  similar  to  their 
own,  when  Griffith  again  placed  the  trumpet  to  his  mouth,  and  shouted 
aloud,  "  Give  it  to  them  ;  drive  them  from  their  yards,  boys  ;  scat- 
ter them  with  your  grape  ;  unreeve  their  rigging  !  " 

The  crew  of  the  American  wanted  but  little  encouragement  to 
enter  on  this  experiment  with  hearty  good  will,  and  the  close  of  his 
cheering  words  was  uttered  amid  the  deafening  roar  of  his  own 
cannon.  The  pilot  had,  however,  mistaken  the  skill  and  readiness 
of  their  foe  ;  for,  notwithstanding  the  disadvantageous  circumstances 
under  which  the  Englishman  increased  his  sail,  the  duty  was  steadily 
and  dexterously  performed. 

The  two  ships  were  now  running  rapidly  on  parallel  lines,  hurling 
at  each  other  their  instruments  of  destruction  with  furious  industry, 
and  with  severe  and  certain  loss  to  both,  though  with  no  manifest 
advantage  in  favor  of  either.  Both  Griffith  and  the  pilot  witnessed 
with  deep  concern  this  unexpected  defeat  of  their  hopes  ;  for  they 
could  not  conceal  from  themselves  that  each  moment  lessened  their 
velocity  through  the  water,  as  the  shot  of  the  enemy  stripped  the 
canvas  from  the  yards,  or  dashed  aside  the  lighter  spars  in  their 
terrible  progress. 

"  We  find  our  equal  here,"  said  Griffith  to  the  stranger.  "  The 
ninety  is  heaving  up  again  like  a  mountain ;  and  if  we  continue  to 
shorten  sail  at  this  rate,  she  will  soon  be  down  upon  us  ! " 

"  You  say  true,  sir,"  returned  the  pilot,  musing ;  "  the  man  shows 
judgment  as  well  as  spirit ;  but  —  " 

He  was  interrupted  by  Merry,  who  rushed  from  the  forward  part 
of  the  vessel,  his  whole  face  betokening  the  eagerness  of  his  spirit 
and  the  importance  of  his  intelligence. 

"  The  breakers  ! "  he  cried,  when  nigh  enough  to  be  heard  amid 
the  din  ;  "  we  are  running  dead  on  a  ripple,  and  the  sea  is  white  not 
two  hundred  yards  ahead." 


Il6       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

The  pilot  jumped  on  a  gun,  and  bending  to  catch  a  glimpse  through 
the  smoke,  he  shouted,  in  those  close,  clear,  piercing  tones,  that  could 
be  even  heard  among  the  roaring  of  the  cannon,  — 

"  Port,  port  your  helm  !  we  are  on  the  Devil's  Grip  !  Pass  up  the 
trumpet,  sir ;  port  your  helm,  fellow ;  give  it  them,  boys  —  give  it  to 
the  proud  English  dogs  !  " 

Griffith  unhesitatingly  relinquished  the  symbol  of  his  rank,  fasten- 
ing his  own  firm  look  on  the  calm  but  quick  eye  of  the  pilot,  and 
gathering  assurance  from  the  high  confidence  he  read  in  the  counte- 
nance of  the  stranger.  The  seamen  were  too  busy  with  their  cannon 
and  their  rigging  to  regard  the  new  danger ;  and  the  frigate  entered 
one  of  the  dangerous  passes  of  the  shoals,  in  the  heat  of  a  severely 
contested  battle.  The  wondering  looks  of  a  few  of  the  older  sailors 
glanced  at  the  sheets  of  foam  that  flew  before  them,  in  doubt  whether 
the  wild  gambols  of  the  waves  were  occasioned  by  the  shot  of  the 
enemy,  when  suddenly  the  noise  of  cannon  was  succeeded  by  the 
sullen  wash  of  the  disturbed  element,  and  presently  the  vessel  glided 
out  of  her  smoky  shroud,  and  was  boldly  steering  in  the  centre  of  the 
narrow  passages. 

For  ten  breathless  minutes  longer  the  pilot  continued  to  hold  an 
uninterrupted  sway,  during  which  the  vessel  ran  swiftly  by  ripples 
and  breakers,  by  streaks  of  foam  and  darker  passages  of  deep  water, 
when  he  threw  down  his  trumpet,  and  exclaimed,  — 

"  What  threatened  to  be  our  destruction  has  proved  our  salvation. 
Keep  yonder  hill  crowned  with  wood,  one  point  open  from  the  church 
tower  at  its  base,  and  steer  east  by  north  ;  you  will  run  through  these 
shoals  on  that  course  in  an  hour,  and  by  so  doing  'you  will  gain  five 
leagues  of  your  enemy,  who  will  have  to  double  their  trail."  .  .  . 

Every  officer  in  the  ship,  after  the  breathless  suspense  of  uncer- 
tainty had  passed,  rushed  to  those  places  where  a  view  might  be 
taken  of  their  enemies.  The  ninety  was  still  steering  boldly  onward, 
and  had  already  approached  the  two-and-thirty,  which  lay  a  helpless 
wreck,  rolling  on  the  unruly  seas,  that  were  rudely  tossing  her  on 
their  wanton  billows.  The  frigate  last  engaged  was  running  along 
the  edge  of  the  ripple,  with  her  torn  sails  flying  loosely  in  the  air, 
her  ragged  spars  tottering  in  the  breeze,  and  everything  above  her 
hull  exhibiting  the  confusion  of  a  sudden  and  unlooked-for  check  to 
her  progress.  The  exulting  taunts  and  mirthful  congratulations  of 
the  seamen,  as  they  gazed  at  the  English  ships,  were,  however,  soon 
forgotten  in  the  attention  that  was  required  to  their  own  vessel. 
The  drums  beat  the  retreat,  the  guns  were  lashed,  the  wounded 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  1 1/ 

again  removed,  and  every  individual  able  to  keep  the  deck  was  re- 
quired to  lend  his  assistance  in  repairing  the  damages  of  the  frigate 
and  securing  her  masts. 

The  promised  hour  carried  the  ship  safely  through  all  the  dangers, 
which  were  much  lessened  by  daylight ;  and  by  the  time  the  sun  had 
begun  to  fall  over  the  land,  Griffith,  who  had  not  quitted  the  deck 
during  the  day,  beheld  his  vessel  once  more  cleared  of  the  confusion 
of  the  chase,  and  ready  to  meet  another  foe. 


[From  The  Pioneers.] 
APPEARANCE  OF  LEATHER-STOCKING.       ' 

THERE  was  a  peculiarity  in  the  manner  of  the  hunter  that  attracted 
the  notice  of  the  young  female,  who  had  been  a  close  and  interested 
observer  of  his  appearance  and  equipments  from  the  moment  he 
came  into  view.  He  was  tall,  and  so  meagre  as  to  make  him  seem 
above  even  the  six  feet  that  he  actually  stood  in  his  stockings.  On  his 
head,  which  was  thinly  covered  with  lank,  sandy  hair,  he  wore  a  cap 
made  of  fox  skin,  resembling  in  shape  the  one  we  have  already  de- 
scribed, although  much  inferior  in  finish  and  ornaments.  His  face 
was  skinny,  and  thin  almost  to  emaciation  ;  but  yet  it  bore  no  signs 
of  disease ;  on  the  contrary,  it  had  every  indication  of  the  most 
robust  and  enduring  health.  The  cold  and  exposure  had,  together, 
given  it  a  color  of  uniform  red.  His  gray  eyes  were  glancing 
under  a  pair  of  shaggy  brows,  that  overhung  them  in  long  hairs  of 
gray  mingled  with  their  natural  hue ;  his  scraggy  neck  was  bare, 
and  burnt  to  the  same  tint  with  his  face  ;  though  a  small  part  of  a 
shirt  collar,  made  of  the  country  check,  was  to  be  seen  above  the 
overdress  he  wore.  A  kind  of  coat,  made  of  dressed  deer  skin,  with 
the  hair  on,  was  belted  close  to  his  lank  body,  by  a  girdle  of  colored 
worsted.  On  his  feet  were  deer  skin  moccasons,  ornamented  with 
porcupines'  quills,  after  the  manner  of  the  Indians,  and  his  limbs 
were  guarded  with  long  leggings  of  the  same  material  as  the  moc- 
casons, which  gartering  of  the  knees  of  his  tarnished  buckskin 
breeches  had  obtained  for  him  among  the  settlers  the  nickname  of 
Leather-stocking.  Over  his  left  shoulder  was  slung  a  belt  of  deer 
skin,  from  which  depended  an  enormous  ox  horn,  so  thinly  scraped, 
as  to  discover  the  powder  it  contained.  The  larger  end  was  fitted 
ingeniously  and  securely  with  a  wooden  bottom,  and  the  other  was 
stopped  tight  by  a  little  plug.  A  leathern  pouch  hung  before  him, 
from  which,  as  he  concluded  his  last  speech,  he  took  a  small  measure, 


Il8  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

and  filling  it  accurately  with  powder,  he  commenced  reloading  the 
rifle,  which,  as  its  butt  rested  on  the  snow  before  him,  reached  nearly 
to  the  top  of  his  fox-skin  cap. 

THE   ARREST   OF  LEATHER-STOCKING. 

THE  whole  group  were  yet  in  the  fulness  of  their  surprise,  when 
a  tall  form  stalked  from  the  gloom  into  the  circle,  treading  down  the 
hot  ashes  and  dying  embers  with  callous  feet,  and  standing  over  the 
light,  lifted  his  cap,  and  exposed  the  bare  head  and  weather-beaten 
features  of  the  Leather-stocking.  For  a  moment  he  gazed  at  the 
dusky  figures  who  surrounded  him,  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger, 
before  he  spoke. 

"  What  would  ye  with  an  old  and  helpless  man  ?  "  he  said.  "  You've 
driven  God's  creaters  from  the  wilderness,  where  his  providence  had 
put  them  for  his  own  pleasure  :  and  you've  brought  in  the  troubles 
and  diviltries  of  the  law,  where  no  man  was  ever  known  to  disturb 
another.  You  have  driven  me,  that  have  lived  forty  long  years  of 
my  appointed  time  in  this  very  spot,  from  my  home  and  the  shelter 
of  my  head,  lest  you  should  put  your  wicked  feet  and  nasty  ways  in 
my  cabin.  You've  driven  me  to  burn  these  logs,  under  which  I've 
eaten  and  drunk  —  the  first  of  Heaven's  gifts,  and  the  other  of  the 
pure  springs  —  for  the  half  of  a  hundred  years  ;  and  to  mourn  the  ashes 
under  my  feet,  as  a  man  would  weep  and  mourn  for  the  children  of 
his  body.  You've  rankled  the  heart  of  an  old  man,  that  has  never 
harmed  you  or  your'n,  with  bitter  feelings  towards  his  kind,  at  a 
time  when  his  thoughts  should  be  on  a  better  world ;  and  you've 
driven  him  to  wish  that  the  beasts  of  the  forests,  who  never  feast  on 
the  blood  of  their  own  families,  was  his  kindred  and  race  :  and  now, 
when  he  has  come  to  see  the  last  brand  of  his  hut,  before  it  is  melted 
into  ashes,  you  follow  him  up,  at  midnight,  like  hungry  hounds  on  the 
track  of  a  worn-out  and  dying  deer.  What  more  would  ye  have  ?  for 
I  am  here  —  one  too  many.  I  come  to  mourn,  not  to  fight ;  and,  if  it 
is  God's  pleasure,  work  your  will  on  me." 


LEATHER-STOCKING'S  SENTENCE. 

"  NATHANIEL  BUMPPO,"  commenced  the  judge,  making  the  cus- 
tomary pause. 

The  old  hunter,  who  had  been  musing  again  with  his  head  on  the 
bar,  raised  himself,  and  cried,  with  a  prompt,  military  tone,  — 


JAMES  FENIMOKE  COOPER. 

"  Here." 

The  judge  waved  his  hand  for  silence,  and  proceeded :  — 

"  In  forming  their  sentence,  the  court  have  been  governed  as  much 
by  the  consideration  of  your  ignorance  of  the  laws,  as  by  a  strict 
sense  of  the  importance  of  punishing  such  outrages  as  this  of  which 
you  have  been  found  guilty.  They  have  therefore  passed  over  the 
obvious  punishment  of  whipping  on  the  bare  back,  in  mercy  to  your 
years  ;  but,  as  the  dignity  of  the  law  requires  an  open  exhibition  of 
the  consequences  of  your  crime,  it  is  ordered  that  you  be  conveyed 
from  this  room  to  the  public  stocks,  where  you  are  to  be  confined 
for  one  hour ;  that  you  pay  a  fine  to  the  state  of  one  hundred  dollars  ; 
and  that  you  be  imprisoned  in  the  jail  of  this  county  for  one  calendar 
month  ;  and  furthermore,  that  your  imprisonment  do  not  cease  until 
the  said  fine  shall  be  paid.  I  feel  it  my  duty,  Nathaniel  Bumppo  —  " 

"  And  where  should  I  get  the  money  ?  "  interrupted  the  Leather- 
stocking,  eagerly ;  "  where  should  I  get  the  money  ?  You'll  take 
away  the  bounty  on  the  painters,  because  I  cut  the  throat  of  a  deer ; 
and  how  is  an  old  man  to  find  so  much  gold  or  silver  in  the  woods  ? 
No,  no,  judge  :  think  better  of  it,  and  don't  talk  of  shutting  me  up  in 
a  jail  for  the  little  time  I  have  to  stay." 

"  If  you  have  anything  to  urge  against  the  passing  of  the  sentence, 
the  court  will  yet  hear  you,"  said  the  judge,  mildly. 

"  I  have  enough  to  say  ag'in  it,"  cried  Natty,  grasping  the  bar,  on 
which  his  fingers  were  working  with  a  convulsed  motion.  "Where 
am  I  to  get  the  money  ?  Let  me  out  into  the  woods  and  hills,  where 
I've  been  used  to  breathe  the  clear  air,  and  though  I'm  threescore 
and  ten,  if  you've  left  game  enough  in  the  country,  I'll  travel  night 
and  day  but  I'll  make  you  up  the  sum  afore  the  season  is  over.  Yes, 
yes  —  you  see  the  reason  of  the  thing,  and  the  wickedness  of  shut- 
ting up  an  old  man,  that  has  spent  his  days,  as  one  may  say,  where 
he  could  always  look  into  the  windows  of  heaven." 

"  I  must  be  governed  by  the  law  —  " 

"  Talk  not  to  me  of  law,  Marmaduke  Temple,"  interrupted  the 
hunter.  "  Did  the  beast  of  the  forest  mind  your  laws  when  it  was 
thirsty  and  hungering  for  the  blood  of  your  own  child  ?  She  was 
kneeling  to  her  God  for  a  greater  favor  than  I  ask,  and  he  heard 
her ;  and  if  you  now  say  no  to  my  prayers,  do  you  think  he  will  be 
deaf?" 

"  My  private  feelings  must  not  enter  into  —  " 

"  Hear  me,  Marmaduke  Temple,"  interrupted  the  old  man,  with 
melancholy  earnestness,  "and  hear  reason.  I've  travelled  these 


I2O  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

mountains  when  you  was  no  judge,  but  an  infant  in  your  mother's 
arms ;  and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  a  right  and  a  privilege  to  travel  them 
ag'in  afore  I  die.  Have  you  forgot  the  time  that  you  come  on  to  the 
lake  shore,  when  there  wasn't  even  a  jail  to  lodge  in  ?  and  didn't  I 
give  you  my  own  bear  skin  to  sleep  on,  and  the  fat  of  a  noble  buck  to 
satisfy  the  cravings  of  your  hunger  ?  Yes,  yes  ;  you  thought  it  no 
sin  then  to  kill  a  deer.  And  this  I  did,  though  I  had  no  reason  to 
love  you  ;  for  you  had  never  done  anything  but  harm  to  them  that 
loved  and  sheltered  me.  And  now,  will  you  shut  me  up  in  your 
dungeons  to  pay  me  for  my  kindness  ?  A  hundred  dollars  !  where 
should  I  get  the  money  ?  No.  no  ;  there's  them  that  says  hard 
things  of  you,  Marmaduke  Temple,  but  you  ain't  so  bad  as  to  wish 
to  see  an  old  man  die  in  a  prison  because  he  stood  up  for  the  right. 
Come,  friend,  let  me  pass ;  it's  long  sin'  I've  been  used  to  such 
crowds,  and  I  crave  to  be  in  the  woods  ag'in.  Don't  fear  me,  judge 
—  I  bid  you  not  to  fear  me  ;  for  if  there's  beaver  enough  left  on  the 
streams,  or  the  buckskins  will  sell  for  a  shilling  apiece,  you  shall 
have  the  last  penny  of  the  fine.  Where  are  ye,  pups  ?  Come  away, 
dogs  !  come  away  !  We  have  a  grievous  toil  to  do  for  our  years,  but 
it  shall  be  done  ;  yes,  yes,  I've  promised  it,  and  it  shall  be  done." 

"  There  must  be  an  end  to  this,"  said  the  judge,  struggling  to  over- 
come his  feelings.  "  Constable,  lead  the  prisoner  to  the  stocks.  Mr. 
Clerk,  what  stands  next  on  the  calendar  ?  " 

Natty  seemed  to  yield  to  his  destiny,  for  he  sank  his  head  on  his 
chest,  and  followed  the  officer  from  the  court-room  in  silence. 


CATHARINE   M.   SEDGWICK. 

Catharine  Maria  Sedgwick,  daughter  of  Judge  Theodore  Sedgwick,  was  born  in  Stock- 
bridge,  Mass.,  on  the  28th  day  of  December,  1789.  She  was  descended  from  a  family  in 
which  talent  was  hereditary,  and  the  influence  of  her  distinguished  father  and  brothers  early 
directed  her  attention  to  literature.  Her  first  work,  A  New  England  Tale,  was  published 
in  1822.  This  was  followed,  in  1824,  by  Redwood,  and  in  1827  by  Hope  Leslie,  the  best 
of  her  novels,  and  especially  valuable  as  a  picture  of  primitive  manners,  and  as  a  transcript 
of  the  thought  and  opinion  of  a  now  half-forgotten  age.  Clarence  :  A  Tale  of  the  Present 
Day,  appeared  in  1830 ;  The  Linwoods,  a  romance  of  the  revolution,  in  1835.  She  also 
wrote  a  series  of  popular  works,  of  which  the  principal  ones  are,  Live  and  Let  Live,  The 
Poor  Rich  Man  and  Rich  Poor  Man,  Means  and  Ends,  and  Home.  Having  made  a 
European  tour,  she  published,  on  her  return  in  1841,  her  Letters  from  Abroad  to  Kindred 
at  Home.  Her  Memoir  of  Lucretia  Maria  Davidson  appeared  in  Sparks's  American  Biog- 
raphy. Her  last  novel,  published  in  1857,  was  entitled  Married  or  Single.  A  biography 
of  Joseph  Curtis,  a  philanthropist  of  New  York,  published  in  1858,  was  her  last  work. 


CATHARINE    M.    SEDGWICK.  121 

This  extended  list,  together  with  magazine  articles  and  miscellanies,  forms  a  noble  record 
of  a  long  and  useful  life.     She  died  at  Stockbridge,  July  20,  1867. 

Miss  Sedgwick's  style  was  very  attractive  ;  her  love  of  nature  was  strong,  and  her  sym- 
pathies were  ready  and  active.  Her  novels  had  a  very  wide  popularity,  both  in  English 
and  in  the  many  languages  into  which  they  were  translated,  and  a  number  of  them  are 
eagerly  read  by  the  new  generations.  A  collection  of  her  letters,  with  a  brief  narrative  to 
connect  them,  has  lately  been  published  by  Miss  Dewey.  The  specimens  here  given  are 
from  that  work. 

THE   RIVER   ST.    LAWRENCE. 

5th  July,  On  board  the  Ontario. 

WE  have  been  sitting  on  the  roof  of  the  ladies'  cabin,  and  by  the 
light  of  this  beautiful  crescent,  which  now  "  seems  to  shine  just  to 
pleasure  us,"  watching  our  winding  path  through  the  "  Thousand 
Isles."  The  heavens  are  yet  brightened  by  the  parting  smiles  of 
day.  The  verdant  islands  are  of  every  size  and  form  —  some  stretch- 
ing for  miles  in  length,  and  some  so  small  that  they  seem  destined 
for  a  race  of  fairies  ;  some  in  clusters,  like  the  "  solitary  set  in  fami- 
lies," and  some  like  beautiful  vestals  in  single  loveliness.  The  last 
streak  of  daylight  has  faded  from  the  west,  and  the  blush  on  the 
waters  is  followed  by  the  reflection  of  the  "far  blue  arch"  and  its 
starry  host.  The  fishermen's  lights  are  kindling  along  the  margin 
of  the  river  ;  our  mate  says  we  are  having  a  "  most  righteous  time." 
Captain  Vaughan,  whose  simplicity  and  unostentatious  kindness 
have  won  their  way  to  all  our  hearts,  has  fired  his  signal-gun  for  us 
several  times,  that  we  might  hear  the  reverberations  amidst  these 
islands.  The  mate  says,  "  Don't  they  hollow  well  ?  "  They  do,  in- 
deed, as  if  we  wakened  the  spirits  of  their  deep  solitudes  to  send  us 
back  our  greeting.  .  .  . 

We  are  seated  vis-a-vis  in  our  little  boat  with  one  small  sail. 
The  boat  has  freight  enough  to  keep  it  steady,  and,  though  this  is 
very  little,  it  occupies  a  great  portion  of  our  room,  so  that  we  are 
obliged  to  sit  on  boards,  without  the  amelioration  of  a  cushion,  al- 
'  most  as  compactly  as  we  should  in  a  stage-coach.  The  St.  Law- 
rence presents  an  appearance  quite  novel  to  us.  It  resembles  one 
of  our  rivers  when  brim  full  from  a  freshet.  We  have  already  passed 
two  of  the  Rapids.  The  river  usually  descends  so  much  as  to  give 
great  velocity  to  the  current  before  you  come  to  the  Rapids.  You 
find  yourself  suddenly  impelled  forward  as  if  by  an  unseen  and  invis- 
ible hand  ;  the  banks  seem  flying  from  you  ;  still  your  passage, 
though  almost  as  fleet,  is  as  noiseless  as  that  of  the  planets  in  their 
orbits.  Suddenly  you  pass  into  the  waters  that  are  foaming  over 
their  hidden  bed  of  rocks.  The  boatmen  throw  themselves  prostrate 


122  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  to  avoid  the  dashing  billows,  their  oars 
being  useless  in  these  agitated  waters.  The  skilful  steersman 
strains  every  nerve  at  the  helm  to  guide  the  boat  in  its  difficult 
path.  It  seems  very  perilous  to  my  cowardly  nerves,  but  it  is  not  so, 
as  is  proved  by  the  rare  occurrence  of  accidents. 


LAYING  THE   CORNER-STONE   OF  BUNKER   HILL  MONUMENT. 

BOSTON,  June  17,  1825. 

To  MR.  CHARLES  SEDGWICK  :  The  great  day  has  arrived,  and  is 
as  beautiful  as  if  Heaven  smiled  on  our  patriotic  celebration.  The 
city  was  never  so  full,  half  so  full,  the  people  say.  There  are  hun- 
dreds vainly  inquiring  for  a  lodging.  The  Common  is  spread  with 
tents  to  shelter  the  militia  of  the  adjacent  towns.  It  is  expected  that 
a  hundred  thousand  people  will  be  present.  Mr.  Webster  expects 
to  make  fifteen  thousand  people  hear  him.  He  and  his  wife  sent  me 
an  invitation  to  go  in  their  party,  so  that  I  think  I  shall  be  sure  to 
be  among  the  hearers  —  the  select  few.  ...  I  was  last  evening 
at  a  party  at  Mrs.  Ouincy's,  to  meet  the  general  (Lafayette) ;  was 
twice  shook  by  his  well-shaken  hand.  It  is  a  pleasure,  certainly,  to 
grasp  a  hand  that  has  been  the  instrument  of  so  noble  a  heart ;  but 
the  pleasure  is  scarcely  individual,  for  the  hand  is  extended  with  as 
little  personal  feeling  as  the  eyes  of  a  picture  are  directed.  .  .  . 

Saturday.  I  am  "  one  of  the  survivors  who  fought,  bled,  and  died 
on  Bunker  Hill."  I  can  only  give  you  generals.  The  oration  was 
in  Mr.  Webster's  best  style  of  manly  eloquence.  There  were  some 
very  fine  strokes  of  genius  in  it ;  but  you  will  see 'it,  and  judge  for 
yourselves.  You  will  find  from  the  papers  that  all  the  world  was 
there  —  some  say  seventy-five  thousand,  some  one  hundred  thou- 
sand. We  went  at  nine,  and  did  not  get  home  till  after  four,  so  that, 
except  for  the  pleasure  of  the  remembrance,  the  balance  was  rather 
on  the  painful  side.  But  when  I  think  of  that  magnificent  man  ;  of 
the  cloud  of  witnesses  ;  of  those  old  weather-beaten  survivors,  with 
their  palsied  limbs  and  nerveless  arms,  once  strong,  and  raised  in 
their  might  for  us  ;  of  the  good  Lafayette,  looking  with  the  benignity 
of  a  blessed  spirit  upon  the  countless  multitude  ;  of  the  old  man's 
prayer ;  of  the  union  of  voices  pouring  out  their  praise,  —  when  I 
think  of  all  these  things,  I  am  grateful  that  I  was  permitted  to  see 
and  hear. 


LYDIA   HUNTLEY    SIGOURNEY.  123 


LYDIA  (HUNTLEY)  SIGOURNEY. 

Lydia  (Huntley)  Sigourney  was  born  in  Norwich,  Conn.,  September  i,  1791.  She  early 
manifested  poetic  talent,  and  composed  verses  at  the  age  of  seven.  She  received  a  careful 
education,  with  such  advantages  as  the  country  then  afforded.  In  her  nineteenth  year  she 
removed  to  Hartford,  and  opened  a  young  ladies'  school.  Her  first  volume,  entitled  Moral 
Pieces  in  Prose  and  Verse,  appeared  not  long  after.  In  1819  she  was  married  to  Mr. 
Charles  Sigourney,  of  Hartford,  and  lived  in  that  city  for  the  remainder  of  her  life.  She 
was  a  most  prolific  writer,  having  published  no  less  than  forty-five  volumes,  consisting  of 
poems,  biographies,  tales,  and  miscellanies.  [The  reader  will  find  a  list  in  Duyckinck's 
Cyclopaedia,  vol.  ii.,  p.  137.]  Mrs.  Sigourney's  poems  have  a  musical  flow,  and  are  inspired 
with  deep  religious  feeling;  her  thoughts  are  not  profound,  but  are  expressed  in  clear 
phrase,  and  are  frequently  enlivened  by  poetic  fancy.  Many  of  her  productions  have  the 
qualities  that  should  preserve  them,  and  a  judicious  collection  would  undoubtedly  be  wel- 
come, especially  with  religious  readers.  Her  death  occurred  June  10,  1865. 

[From  the  Daily  Counsellor.] 
AUGUST  XI. 

"Thou,  O  God,  didst  send  a  plentiful  rain,  whereby  thou  didst  confirm  thine  inheritance, 
when  it  was  weary."     Psalms  Ixviii.  9. 

I  MARKED  at  morn  the  thirsty  earth, 

By  lingering  drought  oppressed, 
Like  sick  man  in  his  fever  heat, 

With  parching  brow  and  breast ; 
But  evening  brought  a  cheering  sound 

Of  music  o'er  the  pane  ; 
The  voice  of  heavenly  showers,  that  said, 

O,  blessed,  blessed  rain. 

The  pale  and  suffocating  plants, 

That  bowed  themselves  to  die, 
Imbibed  the  pure,  reprieving  drops, 

Sweet  gift  of  a  pitying  sky  ; 
The  fern  and  heath  upon  the  rock, 

And  the  daisy  on  the  plain, 
Each  whispered  to  their  new-born  buds,  — 

O,  blessed,  blessed  rain. 

The  herds  that  o'er  the  wasted  fields 

Roamed  with  dejected  eye, 
To  find  their  verdant  pasture  brown, 

Their  crystal  brooklet  dry, 


124  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Rejoiced  within  the  mantling  pool, 

To  stand  refreshed  again, 
Each  infant  ripple  leaping  high 

To  meet  the  blessed  rain. 

The  farmer  sees  his  crisping  corn, 

Whose  tassels  swept  the  ground, 
Uplift  once  more  a  stately  head, 

With  hopeful  beauty  crowned  ; 
While  the  idly  lingering  water-wheel, 

Where  the  miller  ground  his  grain, 
Turns  gayly  round,  with  a  dashing  sound, 

At  the  touch  of  the  blessed  rain. 

Lord,  if  our  drooping  souls  too  long 

Should  close  their  upward  wing, 
And  the  adhesive  dust  of  earth 

All  darkly  round  them  cling, 
Send  thou  such  showers  of  quickening  grace, 

That  the  angelic  train 
Shall  to  our  grateful  shout  respond, 

O,  blessed,  blessed  rain  ! 


NIAGARA. 

FLOW  on  forever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty.     Yea,  flow  on, 
Unfathomed  and  resistless.     God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead,  and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet.     And  he  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder  power  to  speak  of  him 
Eternally,  —  bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence,  —  and  upon  thine  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise. 

Earth  fears  to  lift 

The  insect-trump  that  tells  her  trifling  joys 
Or  fleeting  triumphs,  'mid  the  peal  sublime 
Of  thy  tremendous  hymn.     Proud  Ocean  shrinks 
Back  from  thy  brotherhood,  and  all  his  waves 


LYDIA    HUNTLEY    SIGOURNEY.  12$ 

Retire  abashed.     For  he  hath  need  to  sleep 
Sometimes,  like  a  spent  laborer,  calling  home 
His  boisterous  billows  from  their  vexing  play, 
To  a  long,  dreary  calm  ;  but  thy  strong  tide 
Faints  not,  nor  e'er  with  failing  heart  forgets 
Its  everlasting  lesson  night  nor  day. 
The  morning  stars,  that  hailed  creation's  birth, 
Heard  thy  hoarse  anthem,  mixing  with  their  song 
Jehovah's  name  ;  and  the  dissolving  fires, 
That  wait  the  mandate  of  the  day  of  doom 
To  wreck  the  earth,  shall  find  it  deep  inscribed 
Upon  thy  rocky  scroll. 

The  lofty  trees 

That  list  thy  teaching,  scorn  the  lighter  lore 
Of  the  too  fitful  winds  ;  while  their  young  leaves 
Gather  fresh  greenness  from  thy  living  spray, 
Yet  tremble  at  the  baptism.     Lo  !  yon  birds, 
How  bold  they  venture  near,  dipping  their  wing 
In  all  thy  mist  and  foam.     Perchance  'tis  meet 
For  them  to  touch  thy  garment's  hem,  or  stir 
Thy  diamond  wreath,  who  sport  upon  the  cloud, 
Unblamed,  or  warble  at  the  gate  of  heaven 
Without  reproof.     But  as  for  us,  it  seems 
Scarce  lawful,  with  our  erring  lips,  to  talk 
Familiarly  of  thee.     Methinks,  to  trace 
Thine  awful  features  with  our  pencil's  point, 
Were  but  to  press  on  Sinai. 

Thou  dost  speak 

Alone  of  God,  who  poured  thee  as  a  drop 
From  his  right  hand  —  bidding  the  soul  that  looks 
Upon  thy  fearful  majesty  be  still, 
Be  humbly  wrapped  in  its  own  nothingness, 
And  lose  itself  in  him. 


126  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   BEAUTY. 

SPIRIT  of  Beauty,  who  dost  love  to  dwell 
In  the  pure  chalice  of  yon  new-born  flower, 

That  unrepining  shares  my  wintry  cell, 
And  from  my  hand  receives  the  mimic  shower  ;  — 

Spirit,  who  hoverest  o'er  the  babe's  repose, 
Where  guardian  angels  bend  with  viewless  kiss, 

Counting  the  innocence  no  guile  that  knows 
A  faint  reflection  of  their  higher  bliss  ;  — 

Spirit,  who  on  the  humblest  lip  doth  rest, 
That  uttereth  words  of  kindness,  and  art  seen 

In  the  calm  sunshine  of  the  lowly  breast, 
Garnering  its  treasure  in  a  clime  serene  ;  — 

Spirit,  who,  'mid  the  smile  of  holy  age 

Closing  its  course  in  hope,  dost  make  abode, 

Though  Time  hath  ploughed  the  brow  with  tyrant  rage, 
And  scattered  snows  where  sunny  tresses  flowed  ;  — 

Sweet  spirit,  trembling  through  the  loneliest  star 
That  the  storm-driven  mariner  descries, 

And  from  the  rushlight,  when  its  beam  afar  — 
Eye  of  his  cot  —  the  wayworn  peasant  spies ;  — 

Blest  spirit,  touch  our  hearts,  and  as  the  child, 
Who  toward  his  parents'  home  doth  singing  hie, 

Espies  some  wanderer,  shivering  on  the  wild, 
And  leads  him  onward  with  a  pitying  eye,  — 

So  point  us  to  our  Father.  He  who  bade 
Thee  in  this  wilderness  his  way  prepare, 

And  by  thy  pure,  refining  influence  aid 

Upward  to  him  —  first  perfect  and  first  fair. 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE.  I2/ 


CHARLES   SPRAGUE. 

Charles  Sprague  was  born  in  Boston,  October  25,  1791.  He  entered  into  mercantile  life 
at  a  very  early  age,  and  is  indebted  for  his  intellectual  cultivation  solely  to  his  own  efforts. 
He  was  appointed  cashier  of  the  Globe  Bank  in  1825,  and  held  the  office  until  1864,  when 
he  retired  from  active  life.  He  obtained  the  prize  offered  for  an  ode  for  the  opening  of  the 
Park  Theatre,  in  New  York,  in  1821,  and  subsequently  wrote  for  a  number  of  similar  occa- 
sions. The  ode  recited  at  the  Shakespeare  celebration  in  Boston,  in  1823,  has  been  greatly 
admired  ;  it  is  a  carefully  elaborated  poem,  and  gives  pictures  of  the  prominent  creations  of 
the  great  dramatist  in  a  vivid  light.  In  1825,  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  he  delivered  the  annual 
oration  before  the  municipal  authorities  of  Boston.  This  production  has  been  "got  by 
heart"  by  more  than  one  generation.  The  sentiment  is  elevated  and  philanthropic;  the 
style  animated  and  smoothly  finished,  though  with  rather  too  much  of  formal  antithesis  in 
its  balanced  periods.  No  one  of  the  line  of  civic  orators  has  had  such  a  popular  success. 
In  1830  he  wrote  an  ode  for  the  centennial  celebration  of  the  city,  from  which  some  pas- 
sages are  here  printed.  His  poems  are  few  in  number,  but  are  graceful  and  melodious. 
Mr.  Sprague  is  still  living  (1872),  with  unimpaired  mental  faculties,  and  takes  a  lively 
'  interest  in  the  literature  and  affairs  of  the  day.  His  writings  have  been  published  in  one 
volume,  i2mo.  Boston,  1850. 

[From  Centennial  Ode.] 
XV. 

I  VENERATE  the  Pilgrim's  cause, 

Yet  for  the  red  man  dare  to  plead  — 
We  bow  to  Heaven's  recorded  laws, 

He  turned  to  Nature  for  a  creed  ; 
Beneath  the  pillared  dome, 

We  seek  our  God  in  prayer  ; 
Through  boundless  woods  he  loved  to  roam, 

And  the  Great  Spirit  worshipped  there. 
But  one,  one  fellow-throb  with  us  he  felt ; 
To  one  divinity  with  us  he  knelt ; 
Freedom,  the  self-same  freedom  we  adore, 
Bade  him  defend  his  violated  shore. 

He  saw  the  cloud  ordained  to  grow 

And  burst  upon  his  hills  in  woe  ; 

He  saw  his  people  withering  by, 

Beneath  the  invader's  evil  eye  ; 
Strange  feet  were  trampling  on  his  fathers'  bones  ; 

At  midnight  hour  he  woke  to  gaze 

Upon  his  happy  cabin's  blaze, 
And  listen  to  his  children's  dying  groans. 

He  saw,  —  and,  maddening  at  the  sight, 

Gave  his  bold  bosom  to  the  fight ; 


128  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

To  tiger  rage  his  soul  was  driven  ; 

Mercy  was  not  —  nor  sought  nor  given  ; 
The  pale  man  from  his  lands  must  fly ; 
He  would  be  free  —  or  he  would  die. 

XIX. 

Alas  !  for  them  —  their  day  is  o'er, 

Their  fires  are  out  from  hill  and  shore ; 

No  more  for  them  the  wild  deer  bounds  ; 

The  plough  is  on  their  hunting  grounds  ; 

The  pale  man's  axe  rings  through  their  woods ; 

The  pale  man's  sail  skims  o'er  their  floods  ; 

Their  pleasant  springs  are  dry  ; 
Their  children  —  look  !  by  power  oppressed, 
Beyond  the  mountains  of  the  west 

Their  children  go  —  to  die. 

XXI. 

Cold,  with  the  beast  he  slew,  he  sleeps ; 

O'er  him  no  filial  spirit  weeps  ; 
No  crowds  throng  round,  no  anthem-notes  ascend, 
To  bless  his  coming  and  embalm  his  end ; 
Even  that  he  lived,  is  for  his  conqueror's  tongue  ; 
By  foes  alone  his  death-song  must  be  sung ; 

No  chronicles  but  theirs  shall  tell 
His  mournful  doom  to  future  times  ; 

May  these  upon  his  virtues  dwell, 
And  in  his  fate  forget  his  crimes. 


THE  WINGED   WORSHIPPERS. 

ADDRESSED  TO  TWO  SWALLOWS  THAT  FLEW  INTO  CHAUNCY  PLACE  CHURCH  DURING 
DIVINE  SERVICE. 

GAY,  guiltless  pair, 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven  ? 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here, 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  ? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE.  I2Q 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  w.hich  we  come  to  weep  ; 

Penance  is  not  for  you, 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you  'tis  given 
To  wake  sweet  Nature's  untaught  lays  ; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 

Or,  if  ye  stay 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 

Above  the  crowd, 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 

I'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud, 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'Twere  heaven  indeed, 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  Nature's  charms  to  feed, 
And  Nature's  own  great  God  adore. 


[From  an  Oration,  delivered  July  4,  1825.] 
FATE   OF  THE   INDIANS. 

ROLL  back  the  tide  of  time :  how  powerfully  to  us  applies  the 
promise,  "  I  will  give  thee  the  heathen  for  an  inheritance  !  "  Not 
many  generations  ago,  where  you  now  sit,  circled  with  all  that  exalts 
and  embellishes  civilized  life,  the  rank  thistle  nodded  in  the  wind, 
and  the  wild  fox  dug  his  hole  unscared.  Here  lived  and  loved  another 
race  of  beings.  Beneath  the  same  sun  that  rolls  over  our  heads,  the 
Indian  hunter  pursued  the  panting  deer  ;  gazing  on  the  same  moon 
that  smiles  for  you,  the  Indian  lover  wooed  his  dusky  mate.  Here 
9 


I3O  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

the  wigwam  blaze  beamed  on  the  tender  and  the  helpless,  the 
council-fire  glared  on  the  wise  and  the  daring.  Now  they  dipped  their 
noble  limbs  in  your  sedgy  lakes,  and  now  they  paddled  the  light 
canoe  along  your  rocky  shores.  Here  they  warred  ;  the  echoing 
whoop,  the  bloody  grapple,  the  defying  death-song,  all  were  here  ; 
and,  when  the  tiger  strife  was  over,  here  curled  the  smoke  of  peace. 
Here,  too,  they  worshipped  ;  and  from  many  a  dark  bosom  went  up 
a  pure  prayer  to  the  Great  Spirit.  He  had  not  written  his  laws  for 
them  on  tables  of  stone,  but  he  had  traced  them  on  the  tables  of 
their  hearts.  The  poor  child  of  nature  knew  not  the  God  of  revela- 
tion, but  the  God  of  the  universe  he  acknowledged  in  everything 
around.  He  beheld  him  in  the  star  that  sank  in  beauty  behind  his 
lowly  dwelling,  in  the  sacred  orb  that  flamed  on  him  from  his  mid- 
day throne  ;  in  the  flower  that  snapped  in  the  morning  breeze,  in  the 
lofty  pine  that  had  defied  a  thousand  whirlwinds  ;  in  the  timid 
warbler  that  never  left  its  native  grove,  in  the  fearless  eagle  whose 
untired  pinion  was  wet  in  clouds  ;  in  the  worm  that  crawled  at  his 
foot,  and  in  his  own  matchless  form,  glowing  with  a  spark  of  that 
light,  to  whose  mysterious  source  he  bent,  in  humble  though  blind 
adoration. 

And  all  this  has  passed  away.  Across  the  ocean  came  a  pilgrim 
bark,  bearing  the  seeds  of  life  and  death.  The  former  were  sown 
for  you,  the  latter  sprang  up  iri  the  path  of  the  simple  native.  Two 
hundred  years  have  changed  the  character  of  a  great  continent,  and 
blotted  forever  from  its  face  a  whole  peculiar  people.  Art  has 
usurped  the  bowers  of  nature,  and  the  anointed  children  of  educa- 
tion have  been  too  powerful  for  the  tribes  of  the  ignorant.  Here  and 
there  a  stricken  few  remain ;  but  how  unlike  their  bold,  untamed, 
untamable  progenitors  !  The  Indian,  of  falcon  glance  and  lion 
bearing,  the  theme  of  the  touching  ballad,  the  hero  of  the  pathetic 
tale,  is  gone  !  and  his  degraded  offspring  crawl  upon  the  soil  where 
he  walked  in  majesty,  to  remind  us  how  miserable  is  man  when  the 
foot  of  the  conqueror  is  on  his  neck. 

As  a  race,  they  have  withered  from  the  land.  Their  arrows  are 
broken,  their  springs  are  dried  up,  their  cabins  are  in  the  dust. 
Their  council-fire  has  long  since  gone  out  on  the  shore,  and  their 
war-cry  is  fast  dying  away  to  the  untrodden  west.  Slowly  and  sadly 
they  climb  the  distant  mountains,  and  read  their  doom  in  the  setting 
sun.  They  are  shrinking  before  the  mighty  tide  which  is  pressing 
them  away ;  they  must  soon  hear  the  roar  of  the  last  wave  which 
will  settle  over  them  forever.  Ages  hence,  the  inquisitive  white 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE.  13! 

man,  as  he  stands  by  some  growing  city,  will  ponder  on  the  structure 
of  their  disturbed  remains,  and  wonder  to  what  manner  of  person 
they  belonged.  They  will  live  only  in  the  songs  and  chronicles  of 
their  exterminators.  Let  these  be  faithful  to  their  rude  virtues  as 
men,  and  pay  tribute  to  their  unhappy  fate  as  a  people. 


[From  an  Address,  delivered  in  1827.] 
EVILS   OF   INTEMPERANCE. 

THE  ruinous  consequences  of  wide-spread  intemperance  to  a  peo- 
ple governing  themselves,  can  hardly  be  overrated.  If  there  be  on 
earth  one  nation  more  than  another,  whose  institutions  must  draw 
their  life-blood  from  the  individual  purity  of  its  citizens,  that 
nation  is  our  own.  Rulers  by  divine  right,  and  nobles  by  hereditary 
succession,  may,  perhaps,  tolerate  with  impunity  those  depraving 
indulgences  which  keep  the  great  mass  abject.  Where  the  many 
enjoy  little  or  no  power,  it  were  a  trick  of  policy  to  wink  at  those 
enervating  vices  which  would  rob  them  of  both  the  ability  and  the 
inclination  to  enjoy  it.  But  in  our  own  country,  where  almost  every 
man,  however  humble,  bears  to  the  omnipotent  ballot-box  his  full 
portion  of  the  sovereignty ;  where,  at  regular  periods,  the  ministers 
of  authority,  who  went  forth  to  rule,  return  to  be  ruled,  and  lay  down 
their  dignities  at  the  feet  of  the  monarch  multitude  ;  where,  in 
short,  public  sentiment  is  the  absolute  lever  that  moves  the  political 
world  —  the  purity  of  the  people  is  the  rock  of  political  safety.  We 
may  boast,  if  we  please,  of  our  exalted  privileges,  and  fondly  imagine 
that  they  will  be  eternal;  but  whenever  those  vices  shall  abound 
which  undeniably  tend  to  debasement,  steeping  the  poor  and  the 
ignorant  still  lower  in  poverty  and  ignorance,  and  thereby  destroy- 
ing that  wholesome  mental  equality  which  can  alone  sustain  a  self- 
ruled  people,  it  will  be  found,  by  woful  experience,  that  our  happy 
system  of  government,  the  best  ever  devised  for  the  intelligent  and 
good,  is  the  very  worst  to  be  intrusted  to  the  degraded  and  vicious. 
The  great  majority  will  then  truly  become  a  many-headed  monster, 
to  be  tamed  and  led  at  will.  The  tremendous  power  of  suffrage,  like 
the  strength  of  the  eyeless  Nazarite,  so  far  from  being  their  protec- 
tion, will  but  serve  to  pull  down  upon  their  heads  the  temple  their 
ancestors  reared  for  them.  Caballers  and  demagogues  will  find  it  an 
easy  task  to  delude  those  who  have  deluded  themselves,  and  the 
freedom  of  the  people  will  finally  be  buried  in  the  grave  of  their 


132  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

virtues.  National  greatness  may  survive ;  splendid  talents  and 
brilliant  victories  may  fling  their  delusive  lustre  abroad  —  these  can 
illuminate  the  darkness  that  hangs  round  the  throne  of  a  despot ; 
but  their  light  will  be  like  the  baleful  flame  that  hovers  over  decay- 
ing mortality,  and  tells  of  the  corruption  that  festers  beneath.  The 
immortal  spirit  will  have  gone  ;  and  along  our  shores,  and  among 
our  hillsr  —  those  shores  made  sacred  by  the  sepulchre  of  the  Pilgrim, 
those  hills  hallowed  by  the  uncoffined  bones  of  the  patriot,  —  even 
there,  in  the  ears  of  their  degenerate  descendants,  shall  ring  the 
last  knell  of  departed  liberty. 


ALEXANDER   HILL  EVERETT. 

Alexander  Hill  Everett  was  born  in  Boston,  March  19, 1792,  and  was  educated  at  Harvard 
College,  graduating  in  his  fifteenth  year,  the  youngest  member  of  his  class,  and  the  highest 
in  scholastic  rank.  He  studied  law  in  the  office  of  John  Quincy  Adams,  and  afterwards 
accompanied  that  gentleman  to  St.  Petersburgh  as  an  attache  to  the  embassy.  Upon  his 
return  to  Boston  he  divided  his  attention  between  law  and  politics,  and  though  living  in  a 
city  of  Federalists,  was  a  strong  supporter  of  the  war  with  Great  Britain.  He  was  secretary 
of  legation  in  the  mission  to  Holland,  and  afterwards  charge  d'affaires.  While  abroad,  he 
wrote  a  work  entitled,  Europe,  or  General  Survey  of  the  Political  Situation  of  the  Principal 
Powers,  with  Conjectures  on  their  Future  Prospects.  In  1822,  he  published  a  criticism  of 
the  views  of  Malthus  on  Population.  He  was  appointed  minister  to  Spain  in  1825  and  on 
his  return,  in  1829,  became  editor  of  the  North  American  Review,  to  which  he  had  been  for 
some  years  a  prominent  contributor.  He  was  a  member  of  the  state  legislature  for  five  years, 
but  he  was  defeated  as  a  candidate  for  Congress,  having  given  his  support  to  General  Jack- 
son, in  oppostion  to  the  views  then  prevailing  in  Massachusetts.  He  was  elected  president 
of  Jefferson  College,  in  Louisiana,  in  1840,  but  the  state  of  his  health  compelled  him  to  resign 
the  post.  Two  volumes  of  his  miscellaneous  writings  were  published,  the  first  in  1845,  the 
next  in  1847.  He  was  appointed  by  President  Polk  commissioner  to  China,  and  died  at 
Canton,  May  29,  1847. 

The  reader  of  Mr.  Everett's  essays  cannot  fail  to  perceive  that  he  was  a  man  of  ex- 
traordinary talents  and  accomplishments.  His  fame  has  been  overshadowed  by  the  great 
reputation  of  his  younger  brother,  Edward  ;  but  whatever  distinction  the  latter  acquired  in 
his  longer  and  more  fortunate  career,  it  is  not  certain  that  he  was  at  all  superior,  either 
in  native  force,  or  in  variety  or  extent  of  culture.  The  style  of  Alexander  is  more  natural 
and  agreeable,  partaking  less  of  the  laborious  stateliness  of  oratory,  than  of  the  easy  and 
fluent  diction  of  a  quiet  scholar.  If  his  convictions  had  inclined  him  to  side  with  the 
dominant  party,  and  he  could  have  had  the  kind  of  intellectual  training  by  which  states- 
men are  developed,  his  place  in  our  history  would  have  been  quite  different.  But  he  has 
written  enough  to  secure  him  a  permanent  place  in  the  regard  of  all  scholars,  and  to  warrant 
the  assertion  that  he  was  hardly  second  in  ability  or  in  learning  to  any  of  the  illustrious  men 
of  the  last  generation. 


ALEXANDER  HILL  EVERETT.  133 

[From  a  paper  upon  Madame  de  Stael,  in  the  North  American  Review,  January,  1821.] 
THE   CHARACTER  OF  NAPOLEON   BONAPARTE. 

IF  we  merely  look  at  his  political  and  military  successes,  it  is 
evident  that  the  production  of  such  effects,  in  an  age  like  this,  de- 
mands intellectual  powers  of  the  highest  order.  An  Attila  or  a 
Gengis  Khan  may  ravage  half  the  globe,  without  any  qualities  but 
brutal  courage  and  a  wild  barbarian  energy  of  mind  and  body  ;  but 
to  establish  a  dominion,  though  merely  military,  over  an  enlightened 
continent  like  Europe,  is  an  achievement  of  a  different  sort ;  and 
supposes,  in  addition  to  the  virtues  of  a  great  commander,  a  natural 
dignity  and  elevation  of  mind.  Is  it  possible  that  a  vulgar  spirit 
should  raise  itself,  by  its  own  efforts,  from  the  lowest  ranks  in  the 
army,  to  the  throne  of  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  civilized  nations 
in  Europe  ;  and  should  then  push  the  greatness  of  this  nation  to  a 
point  which  it  never  reached  before,  and  extend  its  influence  over  a 
great  part  of  the  continent  ?  But,  independently  of  the  proofs,  drawn 
from  these  prodigious  results,  of  the  naturally  elevated  character  of 
their  author,  he  has  given  others  in  abundance,  still  more  direct  and 
decisive.  Was  it  a  vulgar  spirit  that  projected  and  completed  the 
noblest  code  of  laws  that  the  world  has  yet  seen,  —  as  much  superior 
to  the  undigested  mass  of  the  Justinian  collection,  as  the  universe 
is  to  the  chaos  out  of  which  it  was  formed  ?  Was  it  a  vulgar  spirit 
that  brought  together,  with  so  perfect  a  taste,  the  finest  specimens 
of  the  art  from  all  other  countries,  and  opened  them  to  the  world 
with  such  princely  magnificence,  in  the  unrivalled  gallery  of  the 
Louvre  ?  Finally,  was  it  a  vulgar  spirit  that  could  find  time  amid  the 
various  and  numberless  occupations  of  the  most  active  life  that  man 
ever  led,  to  take  an  interest  in  almost  every  department  of  knowl- 
edge, and  to  obtain  a  sufficient  acquaintance  with  all,  to  be  able  to 
converse  upon  them  with  satisfaction  and  credit  ? 

Bonaparte  was  certainly  little  in  some  points,  as  in  the  importance 
which  he  attached  towards  the  close  of  his  reign  to  the  childish 
foppery  of  court  etiquette.  But  almost  every  character  is,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  a  union  of  inconsistencies  ;  and  the  prevailing  vices  of 
this  personage  were  of  the  exactly  opposite  description.  Ambition 
of  the  wildest  and  most  extravagant  stamp  was  the  ruling  passion  of 
his  mind.  Had  this  disposition  been  controlled,  in  its  practical 
operation,  by  the  influence  of  moral  feelings  or  principles,  it  might 
have  produced  the  happiest  results  for  its  possessor  and  the  world. 
But  morality,  whether  founded  in  principle  or  feeling,  seems  to  have 


134       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

been  a  thing  of  which  he  had  no  notion  whatever.  We  find  no 
traces  in  his  history  of  benevolent  sentiments,  in  any  of  their  various 
forms  ;  and  he  trampled  under  foot  the  endearing  relations  of  blood 
and  birth,  with  the  same  savage  indifference  which  he  showed  for 
the  just  rights  of  individuals,  with  whom  he  was  unconnected. 
His  mother  was  not  allowed  to  sit  in  his  reception-room ;  and  his 
brothers  were  persecuted  by  him  with  such  relentless  severity,  that 
some  of  them  fled  from  his  presence,  and  the  rest  were  ready  to 
expire  under  its  terrors.  Lucien,  whose  influence  contributed  so 
much  to  give  him  his  power,  found  it  expedient  to  retire  into  volun- 
tary exile.  To  serve  his  political  purposes,  he  divorced  and  broke 
the  heart  of  an  amiable  and  affectionate  wife,  who  had  been  his  com- 
panion and  benefactress  in  his  humbler  fortunes';  and  he  imposed  on 
his  brothers  sacrifices  of  the  same  kind,  to  serve  not  their  views, 
but  his  own.  .  .  . 

The  only  intellectual  vice  of  Bonaparte  was  extravagance  ;  and  it 
was  this  that  caused  his  ruin.  With  all  his  contempt  for  the  rights 
and  feelings  of  others,  he  might  have  maintained  himself  to  the  last, 
and  transmitted  his  sceptre  to  a  long  line  of  descendants,  had  he 
known  how  to  temper  the  wildness  of  his  ambition  with  even  a 
moderate  infusion  of  good  sense  and  discretion.  This  defect  in 
his  understanding  had  been  observed  by  those  who  were  acquainted 
with  him,  before  he  had  betrayed  its  existence  to  the  public  by  the 
incredible  follies  that  marked  the  close  of  his  reign.  General 
Moreau,  as  we  are  told  by  Madame  de  Stael,  observed  at  his 
residence  on  the  Delaware,  upon  hearing  of  the  failure  of  some  at- 
tempt at  conspiracy  in  France,  "  The  French  have  not  the  art  of 
managing  this  sort  of  business ;  but  there  is  one  conspirator,  to 
whose  machinations  he  must  ultimately  fall  a  victim —  I  mean 
himself." 


[From  the  North  American  Review,  January,  1829.] 
PASSAGES   FROM   A   REVIEW   OF   IRVING'S   COLUMBUS. 

THIS  is  one  of  those  works  which  are  at  the  same  time  the  delight 
of  readers  and  the  despair  of  critics.  It  is  as  nearly  perfect  in  its 
kind,  as  any  work  well  can  be  ;  and  there  is,  therefore,  little  or 
nothing  left  for  the  reviewer  but  to  write  at  the  bottom  of  every 
page,  as  Voltaire  said  he  should  be  obliged  to  do,  if  he  published  a 
commentary  on  Racine,  —  Pulchre  !  bene  !  optime  /  .  .  . 

Mr.  Irving  shares,  in  some  degree,  the  merit  and  the  glory  that 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.  135 

belong  to  the  industrious  hero  of  the  present  work,  that  of  leading 
the  way  in  a  previously  unexplored  and  untrodden  path  of  intellectual 
labor.  He  is  the  first  writer  of  purely  cis-Atlantic  origin  and  educa- 
tion, who  succeeded  in  establishing  a  high  and  undisputed  reputa- 
tion, founded  entirely  on  literary  talent  and  success.  This  was  the 
opinion  expressed  by  a  very  judicious  and  discerning  writer  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  upon  the  first  publication  of  the  Sketch  Book ; 
and  it  is,  as  we  conceive,  a  substantially  correct  one.  .  .  . 

Thoroughly  labored  and  highly  finished  as  they  all  are,  Mr. 
Irving's  works  will  hardly  be  surpassed  in  their  way.  Other  writers 
may,  no  doubt,  arise,  in  the  course  of  time,  who  will  exhibit  in 
verse  or  prose  a  more  commanding  talent.  Some  western  Homer, 
Shakespeare,  Milton,  Corneille,  or  Calderon  may  irradiate  our*  liter- 
ary world  with  a  flood  of  splendor,  that  shall  throw  all  other  great- 
ness into  the  shade.  This,  or  something  like  it,  may  or  may  not 
happen  ;  but  even  if  it  should,  it  can  never  be  disputed  that  the  mild 
and  beautiful  genius  of  Mr.  Irving  was  the  morning  star  that  led  up 
the  march  of  our  heavenly  host ;  and  that  he  has  a  fair  right,  much 
fairer  certainly  than  the  great  Mantuan,  to  assume  the  proud  device, 
Primus  ego  in  patriam.  To  have  done  this,  we  repeat,  is  a  singu- 
lar triumph,  far  higher  than  that  of  merely  adding  another  name  to  a 
long  list  of  illustrious  predecessors,  who  flourished  in  the  same 
country.  It  implies  not  merely  taste  and  talent,  but  originality,  —  the 
quality  which  forms  the  real  distinction,  if  there  be  one,  between 
what  we  call  geniits,  and  every  other  degree  of  intellectual  power  ; 
the  quality,  in  comparison  with  which,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  justly 
observes,  all  other  literary  accomplishments  are  as  dust  in  the 
balance. 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT.  - 

William  Cullen  Bryant  was  born  at  Cummington,  Mass.,  November  3,  1794.  He  was 
carefully  educated  under  the  advice  of  his  father,  who  was  a  man  of  superior  talents  and 
attainments.  Like  most  poets,  he  began  rhyming  early,  and  two  productions  of  his  were 
published  in  a  thin  volume  while  he  was  under  fourteen  years  of  age.  He  entered  Williams 
College  in  1810,  but  remained  only  two  years,  and  then  commenced  the  study  of  law.  After 
being  admitted  to  the  bar,  he  continued  in  the  profession  nearly  ten  years,  when,  in  1825, 
he  removed  to  New  York  city,  and  thenceforth  gave  his  time  to  literary  pursuits.  He 
became  connected  with  the  Evening  Post  in  1826,  and  is  still  (1872)  one  of  the  editors  and 
proprietors  of  that  journal.  His  residence  is  at  Roslyn,  L.  I.  He  has  made  several  visits 
to  Europe,  and  has  travelled  extensively  in  this  country.  He  has  published  accounts  of  his 
various  journeys,  which  show  his  keen  observation  and  enjoyment  of  nature.  In  his  youth 
he  was  associated  with  R.  C.  Sands  and  G.  C.  Verplanck  in  editing  The  Talisman  ;  and  he 
has  written  much  and  ably  in  prose  in  his  long  career.  But  his  fame  as  a  poet  has  over- 


136  HAND-BOOK  'OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

shadowed  his  prose  works.  The  verse  of  Bryant  is  characterized  by  smoothness  and  ele- 
gance, but  its  polish  is  not  superficial ;  there  are  no  meaningless  lines  tolerated  for  melody 
alone ;  the  current  of  thought  and  the  results  of  poetic  observation  are  so  arranged  by  a 
nice  instinct,  that  one  might  suppose  the  combination  had  been  predestined.  Bryant  has 
been  said  to  be  an  imitator  of  Wordsworth  ;  and  it  is  true  that  his  poems  are  characterized 
by  the  same  intense  love  of  nature,  especially  of  mountains,  forests,  and  streams,  the  same 
contemplative  mood,  the  same  exclusion  of  human  passions,  the  same  absence  of  gayety  and 
humor,  which  we  find  in  the  philosophical  poet  of  England ;  but  the  nature  Bryant  has  loved 
is  under  American  and  not  English  skies,  and  he  has  been  indebted  to  no  master  for  his 
inspiration  nor  for  his  artistic  culture.  The  poem  which  is,  perhaps,  the  highest  expres- 
sion of  his  genius,  and  the  best  known  of  any  American  poem,  is  Thanatopsis,  written  at 
the  age  of  nineteen,  and  first  published  in  the  North  American  Review.  There  is  not, 
probably,  an  educated  man  now  living  among  our  English  race  in  whose  mind  this  solemn 
and  beautiful  meditation  is  not  associated  with  "the  last  bitter  hour."  Its  pictured 
phrases  occur  at  every  coming  up  of  the  grisly  thought  that  haunts  us  all.  Its  serene  philos- 
ophy has  touched  thousands  who  could  never  reason  calmly  for  themselves  upon  the  inev- 
itable order  of  nature.  It  leaves  a  clear  impression  upon  the  memory  that  defies  the  blur 
of  misquotation,  for  its  well  chosen  words  are  united  by  the  cohesive  power  of  genius,  like 
the  cemented  blocks  of  Old  World  temples,  into  imperishable  forms. 

Mr.  Bryant  has  recently  laid  the  world  of  English  readers  under  new  obligations  by  his 
admirable  translations  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey.  Blank  verse,  to  be  sure,  has  not  much  of  the 
music  of  the  original  hexameters,  but  their  spirit  has  never  been  more  faithfully  presented. 

The  poet  has  probably  been  the  severest  critic  upon  his  own  productions.  We  cannot 
recall  a  single  poem  which  we  could  wish  omitted  from  the  collection. 

THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language  ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow,  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ;  — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around,  — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air,  — 
Comes  a  still  voice  :|Yet  a  few  days  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 

And  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 

Shalt  thou  retire  alone  —  nor  couldst  thou  wish 

Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world  —  with  kings, 

The  powerful  of  the  earth  —  the  wise,  the  good, 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills, 

Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun,  —  the  vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 

The  venerable  woods  —  rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadows  green  ;  and,  poured  round  all, 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of 'death, 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 

Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 

Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 

Save  his  own  dashings  —  yet,  the  dead  are  there  ; 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 

In  their  last  sleep  —  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest  —  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 

Unheeded  by  the  living,  and  no  friend 

Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 


138       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those  who,  in  their  turn,  shall  follow  them. 

So  live  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  coudi 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


TO   A   WATER-FOWL. 

WHITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far  through  their  rosy  depths  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 

Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 
On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.  139 

There  is  a  power  whose  care 

Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast,  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

AH  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 

At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  hand, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 

Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone  ;  the  abyss  of  heaven 

Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form,  yet  on  my  heart 

Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 
And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


GREEN  RIVER. 

WHEN  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 
I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care, 
And  hie  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene, 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of  green, 
As  if  the  bright  fringe  of  herbs  on  its  brink 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  wave  they  drink, 
And  they,  whose  meadows  it  murmurs  through, 
Have  named  the  stream  from  its  own  fair  hue. 

Yet  pure  its  waters  —  its  shallows  are  bright 
With  colored  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 
And  clear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play, 
And  dimples  deepen  and  whirl  away, 
And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'ershoot 


I4O       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root, 

Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk  the  hill, 

The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill 

With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown, 

Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  diamond-stone. 

O,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come, 

With  blossoms,  and  birds,  and  wild  bees'  hum  ; 

The  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there, 

And  freshest  the  breath  of  the  summer  air  ; 

And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 

In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away. 

Yet  fair  as  thou  art,  thou  shunnest  to  glide, 
Beautiful  stream,  by  the  village  side  ; 
But  windest  away  from  haunts  of  men, 
To  quiet  valley  and  shaded  glen, 
And  forest,  and  meadow,  and  slope  of  hill, 
Around  thee,  are  lonely,  lovely,  and  still. 
Lonely  —  save  when,  by  thy  rippling  tides, 
From  thicket  to  thicket  the  angler  glides  ; 
Or  the  simpler  comes  with  basket  and  book, 
For  herbs  of  power  on  thy  banks  to  look  ; 
Or  haply,  some  idle  dreamer,  like  me, 
To  wander,  and  muse,  and  gaze  on  thee. 
Still  —  save  the  chirp  of  birds  that  feed 
On  the  river  cherry  and  seedy  reed, 
And  thy  own  wild  music  gushing  out 
With  mellow  murmur  and  fairy  shout, 
From  dawn  to  the  blush  of  another  day, 
Like  traveller  singing  along  his  way. 
That  fairy  music  I  never  hear, 
Nor  gaze  on  those  waters  so  green  and  clear, 
And  mark  them  winding  away  from  sight, 
Darkened  with  shade  or  flashing  with  light, 
While  o'er  them  the  vine  to  its  thicket  clings, 
And  the  zephyr  stoops  to  freshen  his  wings, 
But  I  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 
To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee, 
Till  the  eating  cares  of  earth  should  depart, 
And  the  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  my  heart ; 
And  I  envy  thy  stream  as  it  glides  along, 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.  14! 

Through  its  beautiful  banks  in  a  trance  of  song. 

Though  forced  to  drudge  for  the  dregs  of  men, 

And  scrawl  strange  words  with  the  barbarous  pen, 

And  mingle  among  the  jostling  crowd, 

Where  the  sons  of  strife  are  subtle  and  loud  ;  — 

I  often  come  to  this  quiet  place, 

To  breathe  the  airs  that  ruffle  thy  face, 

And  gaze  upon  thee  in  silent  dream, 

For  in  thy  lonely  and  lovely  stream 

An  image  of  that  calm  life  appears 

That  won  my  heart  in  my  greener  years. 


THE  EVENING  WIND. 

SPIRIT  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 

That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 
Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow  ; 

Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 
Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high  their  spray, 
And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 
To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea. 

Nor  I  alone  —  a  thousand  bosoms  round 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight ; 
And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 

Livelier  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 
And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 

Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade  ;  go  forth, 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth. 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest, 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 
Summoning  from  the  innumerable  boughs 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast ; 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 

And  where  the  o'ershadowing  branches  sweep  the  grass. 


142  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee  ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed, 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go  —  but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 
Which  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore, 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 
Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once  more ; 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange, 
Shall  tell  the  homesick  mariner  of  the  shore ; 

And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 

He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 


THE   DEATH    OF   THE   FLOWERS. 

THE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown  and  sear, 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove  the  autumn  leaves  lie  dead ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs  the  jay, 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are*the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately  sprang  and 

stood 

In  brighter  light,  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood  ? 
Alas  !  they  all  are  in  their  graves  ;  the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer  glow ; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden  rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook,  in  autumn  beauty  stood, 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.  143 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear,  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the  plague  on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  upland,  glade,  and 
glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm,  mild  day,  as  still  such  days  will 

come, 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter  home  ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the  trees  are 

still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance  late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side  ; 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her  when  the  forest  cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so  brief. 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one  like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 


THE   FUTURE   LIFE. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 

The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead, 
When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps 

And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread  ? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not ; 

Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 
In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought. 

Wilt  not  thine  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there  ? 

That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs  to  me  were  given  ? 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy  prayer, 

Shall  it  be  banished  from  thy  tongue  in  heaven  ? 

In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life-breathing  wind, 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here  ? 


144  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  stormy  past, 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last, 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no  more  ? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger  light, 

Await  thee  there  :  for  thou  hast  bowed  thy  will 

In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I  dwell, 

Shrink  and  consume  my  heart,  as  heat  the  scroll ; 

And  wrath  has  left  its  scar  —  that  fire  of  hell  — 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  soul. 

Yet  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name, 

The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle  eye, 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  climate,  yet  the  same  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  calmer  home, 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this,  — 

The  wisdom  which  is  love,  —  till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss  ? 


ORVILLE   DEWEY. 

Orville  Dewey  was  born  in  Sheffield,  Mass.,  March  28,  1794.  He  was  graduated  at  Wil- 
liams College  in  1814,  and  afterwards  studied  theology  at  Andover  Seminary.  He  became 
a  Unitarian  in  belief,  and  has  since  been  a  distinguished  preacher  in  that  denomination. 
He  was  at  first  an  assistant  to  Dr.  Channing,  in  Boston,  for  two  years,  and  was  then  settled 
in  New  Bedford  for  ten  years.  He  removed  to  New  York  in  1835,  where  he  preached  until 
1842,  and  afterwards  from  1844  to  1848,  when  he  retired  to  his  native  town,  and  prepared 
courses  of  lectures  upon  The  Problem  of  Human  Life  and  Destiny,  and  The  Education  of 
the  Human  Race.  In  1858  he  was  again  settled  in  Boston  over  the  New  South  Church, 
in  Summer  Street,  where  he  remained  until,  a  few  years  ago,  the  church  was  taken  down  to 
make  room  for  business  warehouses. 

He  has  since  resided  at  Sheffield,  Mass. 

His  works  were  published  in  three  vols.,  8vo.,  New  York,  1847.  The  discourses  of  Dr. 
Dewey  are  full  of  profound  thought,  of  strong  religious  convictions,  and  are  written  in  a 
solidly  attractive  style. 


ORVILLE    DEWEY.  145 

[From  an  Address  delivered  at  Cambridge  in  1830.] 
THE   RELATIONS    OF   GENIUS   AND   STUDY. 

WHAT  is  poetry  ?  What  is  this  mysterious  thing  but  one  form  in 
which  human  nature  expresses  itself?  What  is  it  but  embodying, 
what  is  it  but  "  showing  up,"  in  all  its  moods,  from  the  lowliest  to 
the  loftiest,  the  same  deep  and  impassioned  but  universal  mind, 
which  is  alike  and  equally  the  theme  of  philosophy  ?  What  does 
poetry  tell  us  but  that  which  was  already  in  our  own  hearts  ?  What 
are  all  its  intermingled  lights  and  shadows  ;  what  are  its  gorgeous 
clouds  of  imagery,  and  the  hues  of  its  distant  landscapes  ;  what  are 
its  bright  and  blessed  visions,  and  its  dark  pictures  of  sorrow  and 
passion,  but  the  varied  reflection  of  the  beautiful  and  holy,  and  yet 
overshadowed,  and  marred,  and  afflicted  nature  within  us  ?  And 
how  then  is  poetry  any  more  inscrutable  than  our  own  hearts  are 
inscrutable.  To  whom  or  to  what,  let  us  ask  again,  does  poetry  ad- 
dress itself?  To  what,  in  its  heroic  ballads,  in  its  epic  song,  in  its 
humbler  verse,  in  its  strains  of  love,  or  pity,  or  indignation, — to 
what  does  it  speak  but  to  human  nature,  but  to  the  common  mind 
of  all  the  world  ?  And  its  noblest  productions,  its  Iliads,  its  Ham- 
lets and  Lears,  the  whole  world  has  understood  —  the  rude  and  the 
refined,  the  anchorite  and  the  throng  of  men.  There  is  poetry  in 
real  life,  and  in  the  humblest  life.  There  is  "  unwritten  poetry  ; " 
there  is  poetry  in  prose  ;  there  is  poetry  in  all  living  hearts. 

Let  him  be  the  true  poet  who  shall  find  it,  sympathize  with  it,  and 
bring  it  to  light.  He  that  does  so,  must  deeply  study  human  nature. 
He  that  does  so,  must,  whether  he  knows  it  or  not,  be  a  philosopher. 

.  .  He  must  wait  almost  in  prayer  at  the  oracle  within  ;  he 
must  write  the  very  language  of  his  own  soul ;  he  must  write  no 
rash  response  from  the  shrines  of  idolized  models  ;  but  asking,  ques- 
tioning, listening  to  the  voice  within  as  he  writes  ;  and  then  will  the 
deepest  philosophy  take  the  form  of  the  noblest  inspiration. 

And  what  more  does  the  eloquent  man,  let  us  ask  again  —  what 
more  does  he  than  express  that  which,  in  greater  or  less  power,  is 
within  us  all  ?  He  creates  nothing.  He  is  but  an  interpreter  of 
what  God  has  created  within  us.  He  only  gives  it  language.  In 
the  old  Puritan  phrase,  as  true  in  philosophy  as  in  religion,  he  is 
"  but  an  instrument."  He  but  unlocks  the  sources  of  feeling,  and  it 
flows  of  itself.  And  the  key  which  is  to  open  for  him  a  way  to  the 
hearts  of  others,  is  a  profound  study,  a  deep  knowledge,  an  exquisite 
sense  of  what  is  in  his  own  heart.  .  .  . 
10 


146  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

"The  young  man,"  it  is  often  said,  "has  genius  enough,  if  he 
would  only  study."  Now  the  truth  is,  as  I  shall  take  the  liberty 
to  state  it,  that  genius  will  study ;  it  is  that  in  the  mind  which 
does  study ;  that  is  the  very  nature  of  it.  I  care  not  to  say  that 
it  will  always  use  books.  All  study  is  not  reading,  any  more 
than  all  reading  is  study.  By  study,  I  mean  —  but  let  one  of  the 
noblest  geniuses  and  hardest  students  of  any  age  define  it  for  me  : 
"  Study,"  says  Cicero,  "is  the  persistent  and  intense  occupation  of 
mind  directed  with  a  strong  effort  of  will  to  any  subject,  such  as 
philosophy,  poetry,  geometry,  letters."  Such  study,  such  intense 
mental  action,  and  nothing  else,  is  genius.  And  so  far  as  there 
is  any  native  predisposition  about  this  enviable  character  of  mind, 
it  is  a  predisposition  to  that  action.  That  is  the  only  test  of  the 
original  bias  ;  and  he  who  does  not  come  to  that  point,  though 
he  may  have  shrewdness,  and  readiness,  and  parts,  never  had  a 
genius.  No  need  to  waste  regrets  upon  him,  as  that  he  never 
could  be  induced  to  give  his  attention  or  study  to  anything;  he 
never  had  that  which  he  is  supposed  to  have  lost.  For  attention 
it  is,  —  though  other  qualities  belong  to  this  transcendent  power, 
—  attention  it  is,  that  is  the  very  soul  of  genius :  not  the  fixed 
eye,  not  the  poring  over  a  book,  but  the  fixed  thought.  It  is,  in 
fact,  an  action  of  the  mind  which  is  steadily  concentrated  upon 
one  idea,  or  one  series  of  ideas,  —  which  collects  in  one  point 
the  rays  of  the  soul,  till  they  search,  penetrate,  and  fire  the  whole 
train  of  its  thoughts.  And  while  the  fire  burns  within,  the  out- 
ward man  may  indeed  be  cold,  indifferent,  negligent,  —  absent  in 
appearance;  he  may  be  an  idler,  or  a  wanderer,  apparently  with- 
out aim  or  intent:  but  still  the  fire  burns  within.  And  what 
though  "it  bursts  forth,"  at  length,  as  has  been  said,  "like  vol- 
canic fires,  with  spontaneous,  original,  native  force?"  It  only 
shows  the  intenser  action  of  the  elements  beneath.  What  though 
it  breaks  like  lightning  from  the  cloud  ?  The  electric  fire  had 
been  collecting  in  the  firmament  through  many  a  silent,  calm,  and 
clear  day.  What  though  the  might  of  genius  appears  in  one  de- 
cisive blow,  struck  in  some  moment  of  high  debate,  or  at  the 
crisis  of  a  nation's  peril  ?  That  mighty  energy,  though  it  may 
have  heaved  in  the  breast  of  a  Demosthenes,  was  once  a  feeble 
infant's  thought.  A  mother's  eye  watched  over  its  dawning.  A 
father's  care  guarded  its  early  growth.  It  soon  trod  with  youth- 
ful step  the  halls  of  learning,  and  found  other  fathers  to  wake  and 
to  watch  for  it  —  even  as  it  finds  them  here.  It  went  on;  but 


EDWARD   EVERETT.  147 

silence  was  upon  its  path,  and  the  deep  strugglings  of  the  inward 
soul  marked  its  progress,  and  the  cherishing  powers  of  nature 
silently  ministered  to  it.  The  elements  around  breathed  upon  it, 
and  "  touched  it  to  finer  issues."  The  golden  ray  of  heaven  fell 
upon  it,  and  ripened  its  expanding  faculties.  The  slow  revolutions 
of  years  slowly  added  to  its  collected  treasures  and  energies,  till, 
in  its  hour  of  glory,  it  stood  forth  embodied  in  the  form  of  living, 
commanding,  irresistible  eloquence  !  The  world  wonders  at  the 
manifestation,  and  says,  "  Strange,  strange  that  it  should  come 
thus  unsought,  unpremeditated,  unprepared."  But  the  truth  is, 
there  is  no  more  a  miracle  in  i.t  than  there  is  in  the  towering  of  the 
pre-eminent  forest  tree,  or  in  the  flowing  of  the  mighty  and  irresist- 
ible river,  or  in  the  wealth  and  the  waving  of  the  boundless 
harvest. 

Fathers  and  guardians  of  our  youthful  learning,  behold  it  here 
—  the  germ  of  all  that  glorious  power,  in  the  strong,  generous, 
and  manly  spirits  of  the  rising  youth  around  you,  and  say,  if  you 
would  relinquish  an  office  so  honored,  and  so  to  be  rewarded,  for 
the  sceptre  of  any  other  dominion.  Youthful  aspirants  after  intel- 
lectual eminence,  forget,  forget,  I  entreat  you, —  banish,  banish  for- 
ever, the  weak  and  senseless  idea,  that  anything  will  serve  your 
purpose  but  study,  —  intense,  unwearied,  absorbing  study. 


EDWARD   EVERETT. 

Edward  Everett  was  born  in  Dorchester,  Mass.,  April  n,  1794.  He  entered  Harvard 
College  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  and  was  graduated  with  the  highest  honors.  On  leaving  col- 
lege he  was  appointed  tutor,  and  at  the  same  time  he  pursued  the  study  of  divinity.  He 
was  settled  in  Boston  as  pastor  of  Brattle  Street  Church,  and  very  soon  attracted  great  atten- 
tion by  his  forcible  and  scholarly  discourses.  In  1814  he  was  appointed  professor  of  Greek 
literature  at  Cambridge,  and  was  allowed  time  for  travel  and  study  abroad  before  commen- 
cing his  duties.  He  spent  four  years  in  Europe,  visiting  the  principal  cities  and  seats  of 
learning,  and  extending  his  researches  into  a  wide  range  of  subjects.  On  his  return,  he 
gave  a  brilliant  series  of  college  lectures,  and,  besides,  conducted  the  North  American 
Review.  In  1824  he  delivered  an  oration  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard. 
The  occasion  was  distinguished  by  the  presence  of  Lafayette,  and  the  orator's  reference  to 
the  nation's  guest  in  the  closing  paragraph  was  especially  happy.  Indeed  the  whole  oration, 
as  we  can  readily  believe,  produced  an  extraordinary  effect.  It  was  as  carefully  studied  as 
though  it  were  to  be  judged  in  silence  by  critical  readers,  and  was  pronounced  with  an 
energy,  tempered  with  unobtrusive  art,  which  literary  men  are  apt  to  neglect,  and  by  which 
literary  audiences,  just  as  readily  as  the  unlearned,  are  surprised  into  enthusiasm.  In  1824 
he  was  elected  a  member  of  Congress,  and  continued  to  represent  his  district  for  ten  years, 
when  he  was  chosen  governor.  After  serving  four  terms,  he  was  defeated  in  1839,  by  Marcus 


148  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

Morton,  by  a  majority  of  one  vote.  In  1841  he  was  appointed  minister  to  England  by 
President  Harrison.  Upon  his  return  to  the  United  States,  in  1845,  he  was  chosen 
president  of  Harvard  University ;  but  he  found  the  routine  irksome,  and  resigned  at  the  end 
of  three  years.  He  was  appointed  secretary  of  state  by  President  Fillmore,  to  fill  the 
vacancy  caused  by  the  death  of  Daniel  Webster. 

In  the  spring  of  1853  he  was  cl.osena  member  of  the  United  States  Senate,  but  his  health 
was  so  much  impaired  by  the  duties  and  anxieties  of  the  office  that  he  resigned  in  May,  1854. 
He  became  deeply  interested  in  the  plan  of  purchasing  Mount  Vernon,  and  delivered  his 
oration  on  Washington  in  all  the  principal  cities  of  the  country  for  the  benefit  of  the  fund. 
The  amount  so  contributed  by  him  for  this  patriotic  purpose  exceeded  fifty  thousand  dollars. 
He  died  in  Boston,  January  15,  1865. 

It  is  evident  from  this  brief  summary  that  Mr.  Everett  was  a  man  of  rare  powers  and 
rarer  cultivation.  He  might  truly  say,  "  What  could  I  have  done  unto  my  vineyard  that  I 
have  not  done  unto  it?"  From  his  infancy  he  seemed  to  have  been  marked  out  for  a 
scholar,  and  through  his  life  he  enjoyed  exceptional  advantages  in  acquiring  knowledge,  and 
the  best  use  of  his  naturally  brilliant  faculties.  His  orations  were  composed  for  widely  dif- 
fering occasions,  but  in  each  case  the  treatment  is  so  masterly  that  one  would  think  the  sub- 
ject then  in  hand  had  been  the  special  study  of  his  life.  But  his  care  did  not  cease  with  the 
preparation  ;  his  voice,  gestures,  and  cadences  were  always  in  harmony  with  his  theme,  so 
that  he  was  absolute  master  of  his  audience.  It  is  seldom  that  the  literary  annalist  has  to 
record  a  career  in  which  the  preacher  and  essayist  is  developed  by  natural  growth  into  the 
statesman  and  diplomatist,  while  his  scholastic  tastes  and  habits  grow  in  parallel  lines,  and 
the  man  at  threescore  is  an  epitome  of  the  knowledge  and  an  exemplar  of  the  eloquence  of 
his  generation. 

Mr.  Everett's  political  career,  though  an  honorable  one,  was  not  highly  successful  in  all 
respects.  He  was  a  cold  man,  and  was  not  in  the  least  popular,  except  in  academic  circles, 
when  off  the  platform.  He  was  naturally  a  conservative,  and  success  more  frequently  waits 
upon  the  advocate  of  positive  ideas  ;  and,  besides,  at  the  time  of  his  senatorial  career  con- 
servatism was  no  longer  in  accordance  with  the  temper  of  the  majority  in  his  state.  Though 
he  might  not  have  been  deficient  in  moral  courage,  —  and  he  certainly  took  no  pains  to  con- 
ceal his  opinions,  —  he  was  at  times  placed  where  downright  Saxon  would  have  been  more  to 
the  purpose  than  his  gracefully  turned  phrases.  His  natural  sensitiveness  and  his  excessive 
refinement  made  him  shrink  from  the  personal  sacrifices  which  a  popular  leader  must  make, 
and  from  the  sharp  contests  with  opponents  in  high  places  which  it  is  political  suicide 
to  shun. 

Everett's  works  are  always  interesting  to  the  reader.  Open  a  volume  at  random,  and  the 
thought  at  once  engages  attention.  It  is  true  we  do  not  find  passages,  like  those  in  Web- 
ster's speeches,  which  come  upon  us  like  thunder  strokes  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are 
fewer  arid  spaces.  Webster  is  often  uninteresting,  if  not  dull,  for  pages  together.  Everett, 
if  he  never  astonishes,  never  fails  to  delight. 

Mr.  Everett's  works  are  comprised  in  four  vols.  8vo.  He  edited  also  the  works  of  Web- 
ster, and  wrote  an  introductory  biography. 

A   PICTURE   OF   A   MODEL   FARM. 

As  a  work  of  art,  I  know  few  things  more  pleasing  to  the  eye,  or 
more  capable  of  affording  scope  and  gratification  to  a  taste  for  the 
beautiful,  than  a  well-situated,  well-cultivated  farm.  A  man  of 
refinement  will  hang  with  never  wearied  gaze  on  a  landscape  by 
Claude  or  Salvator ;  the  price  of  a  section  of  the  most  fertile  land  in 
the  west  would  not  purchase  a  few  square  feet  of  the  canvass  on 
which  these  great  artists  have  depicted  a  rural  scene.  But  nature 


EDWARD    EVERETT.  149 

has  forms  and  proportions  beyond  the  painter's  skill ;  her  divine 
pencil  touches  the  landscape  with  living  lights  and  shadows  never 
mingled  on  his  palette.  What  is  there  on  earth  which  can  more 
entirely  charm  the  eye  or  gratify  the  taste  than  a  noble  farm  ?  It 
stands  upon  a  southern  slope,  gradually  rising  with  variegated  ascent 
from  the  plain,  sheltered  from  the  north-western  winds  by  woody 
heights,  broken  here  and  there  with  moss-covered  boulders,  which 
impart  variety  and  strength  to  the  outline.  The  native  forest  has 
been  cleared  from  the  greater  part  of  the  farm,  but  a  suitable  portion, 
carefully  tended,  remains  in  wood  for  economical  purposes,  and  to 
give  a  picturesque  effect  to  the  landscape.  The  eye  ranges  round 
three  fourths  of  the  horizon  over  a  fertile  expanse  —  bright  with  the 
cheerful  waters  of  a  rippling  stream,  a  generous  river,  or  a  gleaming 
lake ;  dotted  with  hamlets,  each  with  its  modest  spire ;  and,  if  the 
farm  lies  in  the  vicinity  of  the  coast,  a  distant  glimpse,  from  the 
high  grounds,  of  the  mysterious,  everlasting  sea,  completes  the 
prospect.  It  is  situated  off  the  high  road,  but  near  enough  to  the 
village  to  be  easily  accessible  to  the  church,  the  school-house,  the 
post-office,  the  railroad,  a  sociable  neighbor,  or  a  travelling  friend.  It 
consists  in  due  proportion  of  pasture  and  tillage,  meadow  and  wood- 
land, field  and  garden.  A  substantial  dwelling,  with  everything  for 
convenience  and  nothing  for  ambition,  — with  the  fitting  appendages 
of  stable,  and  barn,  and  corn-barn,  and  other  farm  buildings,  not  forget- 
ting a  spring-house  with  a  living  fountain  of  water,  —  occupies,  upon  a 
gravelly  knoll,  a  position  well  chosen  to  command  the  whole  estate. 
A  few  acres  on  the  front  and  on  the  sides  of  the  dwelling,  set  apart 
to  gratify  the  eye  with  the  choicer  forms  of  rural  beauty,  are  adorned 
with  a  stately  avenue,  with  noble  solitary  trees,  with  graceful  clumps, 
shady  walks,  a  velvet  lawn,  a  brook  murmuring  over  a  pebbly  bed, 
here  and  there  a  grand  rock,  whose  cool  shadow  at  sunset  streams 
across  the  field ;  all  displaying,  in  the  real  loveliness  of  nature,  the 
original  of  those  landscapes,  of  which  art  in  its  perfection  strives  to 
give  us  the  counterfeit  presentment.  Animals  of  select  breed,  such 
as  Paul  Potter,  and  Morland,  and  Landseer,  and  Rosa  Bonheur 
never  painted,  roam  the  pastures,  or  fill  the  hurdles  and  the  stalls  ; 
the  plough  walks  in  rustic  majesty  across  the  plain,  and  opens  the 
genial  bosom  of  the  earth  to  the  sun  and  air ;  nature's  holy  sacra- 
ment of  seed-time  is  solemnized  beneath  the  vaulted  cathedral  sky ; 
silent  dews,  and  gentle  showers,  and  kindly  sunshine,  shed  their 
sweet  influence  on  the  teeming  soil ;  springing  verdure  clothes  the 
plain  ;  golden  wavelets,  driven  by  the  west  wind,  run  over  the  joyous 


I5O  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

wheat-field  ;  the  tall  maize  flaunts  in  her  crispy  leaves  and  nodding 
tassels ;  while  we  labor  and  while  we  rest,  while  we  wake  and  while 
we  sleep,  God's  chemistry,  which  we  cannot  see,  goes  on  beneath 
the  clods ;  myriads  and  myriads  of  vital  cells  ferment  with  elemental 
life ;  germ,  and  stalk,  and  leaf,  and  flower,  and  silk,  and  tassel,  and 
grain,  and  fruit,  grow  up  from  the  common  earth  ;  the  mowing 
machine  and  the  reaper  —  mute  rivals  of  human  industry  —  perform 
their  gladsome  task  ;  the  well-piled  wagon  brings  home  the  ripened 
treasures  of  the  year ;  the  bow  of  promise  fulfilled  spans  the  fore- 
ground of  the  picture,  and  the  gracious  covenant  is  redeemed,  that 
while  the  earth  remaineth,  summer  and  winter,  and  heat  and  cold, 
and  day  and  night,  and  seed-time  and  harvest,  shall  not  fail. 


THE   USES  OF  ASTRONOMY. 

THERE  is  much,  in  every  way,  in  the  city  of  Florence,  to  excite 
the  curiosity,  to  kindle  the  imagination,  and  to  gratify  the  taste. 
Sheltered  on  the  north  by  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Fiesole,  whose 
Cyclopean  walls  carry  back  the  antiquary  to  ages  before  the  Roman, 
before  the  Etruscan,  power,  the  flowery  city  (Fiorenza)  covers  the 
sunny  banks  of  the  Arno  with  its  stately  palaces.  Dark  and  frown- 
ing piles  of  medieval  structure  ;  a  majestic  dome,  the  prototype  of  St. 
Peter's  ;  basilicas  which  enshrine  the  ashes  of  some  of  the  mightiest 
of  the  dead  ;  the  stone  where  Dante  stood  to  gaze  on  the  campanile; 
the  house  of  Michael  Angelo,  still  occupied  by  a  descendant  of  his 
lineage  and  name  —  his  hammer,  his  chisel,  his ,  dividers,  his  manu- 
script poems,  all  as  if  he  had  left  them  but  yesterday  ;  airy  bridges, 
which  seem  not  so  much  to  rest  on  the  earth  as  to  hover  over  the 
waters  they  span  ;  the  loveliest  creations  of  ancient  art,  rescued 
from  the  grave  of  ages  again  to  "  enchant  the  world  ; "  the  breath- 
ing marbles  of  Michael  Angelo,  the  glowing  canvas  of  Raphael  and 
Titian ;  museums  filled  with  medals  and  coins  of  every  age,  from 
Cyrus  the  Younger,  and  gems,  and  amulets,  and  vases  from  the 
sepulchres  of  Egyptian  Pharaohs  coeval  with  Joseph,  and  Etruscan 
Lucumons  that  swayed  Italy  before  the  Romans  ;  libraries  stored 
with  the  choicest  texts  of  ancient  literature ;  gardens  of  rose,  and 
orange,  and  pomegranate,  and  myrtle ;  the  very  air  you  breathe  languid 
with  music  and  perfume — such  is  Florence.  But  among  all  its 
fascinations  addressed  to  the  sense,  the  memory,  and  the  heart, 
there  was  none  to  which  I  more,  frequently  gave  a  meditative  hour, 


EDWARD    EVERETT.  15  I 

during  a  year's  residence,  than  to  the  spot  where  Galileo  Galilei  sleeps 
beneath  the  marble  floor  of  Santa  Croce  ;  no  building  on  which  I 
gazed  with  greater  reverence  than  I  did  upon  the  modest  mansion 
at  Arcetri,  villa  at  once  and  prison,  in  which  that  venerable  sage,  by 
command  of  the  Inquisition,  passed  the  sad  closing  years  of  his  life  ; 
the  beloved  daughter  on  whom  he  had  depended  to  smooth  his 
passage  to  the  grave  laid  there  before  him  ;  the  eyes  with  which  he 
had  discovered  worlds  before  unknown  quenched  in  blindness  :  — • 

Ahime  !  quegli  occhi  si  son  fatti  oscuri, 
Che  vid§r  piu  di  tutti  i  tempi  antichi, 
E  luce  fftr  dei  secoli  futuri. 

That  was  the  house  "  where,"  says  Milton  (another  of  those  of 
whom  the  world  was  not  worthy),  "  I  found  and  visited  the  famous 
Galileo,  grown  old,  —  a  prisoner  to  the  Inquisition  for  thinking  on 
astronomy  otherwise  than  as  the  Dominican  and  Franciscan  licen- 
sers thought."  Great  Heavens  !  what  a  tribunal,  what  a  culprit,  what 
a  crime !  Let  us  thank  God,  my  friends,  that  we  live  in  the  nine- 
teenth century.  Of  all  the  wonders  of  ancient  and  modern  art,  — 
statues,  and  paintings,  and  jewels,  and  manuscripts,  the  admiration 
and  the  delight  of  ages,  —  there  was  nothing  which  I  beheld  with 
more  affectionate  awe  than  that  poor  rough  tube,  a  few  feet  in 
length,  the  work  of  his  own  hands,  that  very  "  optic  glass  "  through 
which  the  "  Tuscan  Artist  "  viewed  the  moon,  — 

"At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesol6 
Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands, 
Rivers,  or  mountains,  in  her  spotty  globe  ;  " 

that  poor  little  spy-glass  (for  it  is  scarcely  more)  through  which  the 
human  eye  first  distinctly  beheld  the  surface  of  the  moon  — first  dis- 
covered the  phases  of  Venus,  the  satellites  of  Jupiter,  and  the  seem- 
ing handles  of  Saturn  —  first  penetrated  the  dusky  depths  of  the 
heavens  —  first  pierced  the  clouds  of  visual  error,  which  from  the 
creation  of  the  world  involved  the  system  of  the  universe. 

There  are  occasions  in  life  in  which  a  great  mind  lives  years  of 
rapt  enjoyment  in  a  moment.  I  can  fancy  the  emotions  of  Galileo, 
when,  raising  the  newly-constructed  telescope  to  the  heavens,  he  saw 
fulfilled  the  grand  prophecy  of  Copernicus,  and  beheld  the  planet 
Venus  —  crescent  like  the  moon.  It  was  such  another  moment  as 
that  when  the  immortal  printers  of  Mentz  and  Strasburg  received 
the  first  copy  of  the  Bible  into  their  hands,  the  work  of  their  divine 
art;  like  that  when  Columbus,  through  the  gray  dawn  of  the  I2th 


152  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

of  October,  1492  (Copernicus,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  was  then  a 
student  at  Cracow),  beheld  the  shores  of  San  Salvador ;  like  that 
when  the  law  of  gravitation  first  revealed  itself  to  the  intellect  of 
Newton ;  like  that  when  Franklin  saw  by  the  stiffening  fibres  of  the 
hempen  cord  of  his  kite,  that  he  held  the  lightning  in  his  grasp ;  like 
that  when  Leverrier  received  back  from  Berlin  the  tidings  that  the 
planet  predicted  by  him  was  found.  .  .  . 

Yes,  noble  Galileo,  thou  art  right  —  E  pur  si  muove.  "It  does 
move."  Bigots  may  make  thee  recant  it  —  but  it  moves  neverthe- 
less. Yes,  the  earth  moves,  and  the  planets  move,  and  the  mighty 
waters  move,  and  the  empires  of  men  move,  and  the  world  of 
thought  moves,  ever  onward  and  upward  to  higher  facts  and  bolder 
theories.  The  Inquisition  may  seal  thy  lips,  but  they  can  no  more 
stop  the  progress  of  the  great  truth  propounded  by  Copernicus  and 
demonstrated  by  thee,  than  they  can  stop  the  revolving  earth  ! 

Close  now,  venerable  sage,  that  sightless,  tearful  eye  ;  it  has  seen 
what  man  never  before  saw  —  it  has  seen  enough.  Hang  up  that 
poor  little  spy-glass  ;  it  has  done  its  work.  Not  Herschel  nor  Rosse 
has  comparatively  done  more.  Franciscans  and  Dominicans  deride 
thy  discoveries  now,  but  the  time  will  come  when  from  two  hundred 
observatories  in  Europe  and  America  the  glorious  artillery  of  science 
shall  nightly  assault  the  skies,  but  they  shall  gain  no  conquests  in 
those  glittering  fields  before  which  thine  shall  be  forgotten.  Rest  in 
peace,  great  Columbus  of  the  heavens,  like  him  scorned,  persecuted, 
broken-hearted ;  in  other  ages,  in  distant  hemispheres,  when  the 
votaries  of  science,  with  solemn  acts  of  consecration,  shall  dedicate 
their  stately  edifices  to  the  cause  of  knowledge  and  truth,  thy  name 
shall  be  mentioned  with  honor  ! 


CONCLUSION   OF  THE  ORATION   AT   CAMBRIDGE,   IN    1824. 

MEANTIME  the  years  are  rapidly  passing  away,  and  gathering 
importance  in  their  course.  With  the  present  year  will  be  com- 
pleted the  half  century  from  that  most  important  era  in  human 
history,  the  commencement  of  our  revolutionary  war.  The  jubilee 
of  our  national  existence  is  at  hand.  The  space  of  time,  that  has 
elapsed  from  that  momentous  date,  has  laid  down  in  the  dust,  which 
the  blood  of  many  of  them  had  already  hallowed,  most  of  the  great 
men  to  whom,  under  Providence,  we  owe  our  national  existence  and 
privileges.  A  few  still  survive  among  us,  to  reap  the  rich  fruits  of 
their  labors  and  sufferings ;  and  one  has  yielded  himself  to  the 


EDWARD    EVERETT.  153 

united  voice  of  a  people,  and  returned  in  his  age  to  receive  the 
gratitude  of  the  nation  to  whom  he  devoted  his  youth.  It  is  re- 
corded on  the  pages  of  American  history,  that  when  this  friend  of 
our  country  applied  to  our  commissioners  at  Paris,  in  1776,  for  a 
passage  to  America,  they  were  obliged  to  answer  him  (so  low  and 
abject  was  then  our  dear  native  land),  that  they  possessed  not  the 
means  nor  the  credit  sufficient  for  providing  a  single  vessel,  in  all 
the  ports  of  France.  Then,  exclaimed  the  youthful  hero,  "  I  will 
provide  my  own  ; "  and  it  is  a  literal  fact,  that  when  all  America  was 
too  poor  to  offer  him  so  much  as  a  passage  to  our  shores,  he  left,  in 
his  tender  youth,  the  bosom  of  home,  of  happiness,  of  wealth,  of 
rank,  to  plunge  in  the  dust  and  blood  of  our  inauspicious  struggle. 

Welcome,  friend  of  our  fathers,  to  our  shores  !  Happy  are  our 
eyes  that  behold  those  venerable  features.  Enjoy  a  triumph  such  as 
never  conqueror  or  monarch  enjoyed  the  assurance  —  that  through- 
out America  there  is  not  a  bosom  which  does  not  beat  with  joy  and 
gratitude  at  the  sound  of  your  name.  You  have  already  met  and 
saluted,  or  will  soon  meet  the  few  that  remain  of  the  ardent  patriots, 
prudent  counsellors,  and  brave  warriors,  with  whom  you  were  as- 
sociated in  achieving  our  liberty.  But  you  have  looked  round  in 
vain  for  the  faces  of  many  who  would  have  lived  years  of  pleasure 
on  a  day  like  this,  with  their  old  companion  in  arms  and  brother  in 
peril.  Lincoln,  and  Greene,  and  Knox,  and  Hamilton  are  gone ; 
the  heroes  of  Saratoga  and  Yorktown  have  fallen  before  the  only 
foe  they  could  not  meet.  Above  all,  the  first  of  heroes  and  of  men, 
the  friend  of  your  youth,  the  more  than  friend  of  his  country,  rests 
in  the  bosom  of  the  soil  he  redeemed.  On  the  banks  of  his 
Potomac  he  lies  in  glory  and  peace.  You  will  revisit  the  hospitable 
shades  of  Mount  Vernon,  but  him  whom  you  venerated  as  we  did, 
you  will  not  meet  at  its  door.  His  voice  of  consolation,  which 
reached  you  in  the  Austrian  dungeons,  cannot  now  break  its 
silence,  to  bid  you  welcome  to  his  own  roof.  But  the  grateful  children 
of  America  will  bid  you  welcome  in  his  name.  Welcome,  thrice 
welcome,  to  our  shores  ;  and  whithersoever  throughout  the  limits  of 
the  continent  your  course  shall  take  you,  the  ear  that  hears  you 
shall  bless  you,  the  eye  that  sees  you  shall  bear  witness  to  you, 
and  every  tongue  exclaim,  with  heartfelt  joy,  Welcome,  welcome, 
Lafayette ! 


154  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


JOSEPH   RODMAN   DRAKE. 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake  was  bom  in  New  York  city,  August  7,  1795.  The  death  of  his 
father  left  the  family  in  adverse  circumstances  ;  the  young  poet,  however,  obtained  a  good 
education,  and  commenced  the  study  of  medicine.  He  was  married,  a  few  months  after 
coming  of  age,  to  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  merchant,  and  so  had  no  further  struggles  for 
a  livelihood.  In  1819  the  symptoms  of  consumption  appeared,  and  he  went  to  New  Orleans 
to  pass  the  winter.  The  mild  climate  had  no  power  to  arrest  the  disease  ;  he  returned  home 
in  the  spring,  and  died  on  the  2ist  day  of  September  following.  Drake  began  writing 
verses,  mostly  of  a  satirical  sort,  which  were  published  in  the  New  York  Evening  Post, 
and  signed  "Croaker."  Soon  after,  he  was  joined  in  this  pleasantry  by  Fitz-Greene  Hal- 
leek,  and  their  productions  appeared  as  the  work  of  a  partnership,  "  Croaker  &  Co."  One 
of  the  "Croaker  "  pieces  was  Drake's  poem,  here  printed,  The  American  Flag.  The  Cul- 
prit Fay,  which  is  the  longest  and  best  of  his  poems,  was  written,  it  is  said,  in  three  days. 
It  is  a  bright  and  delicate  conceit ;  and  though  Shakespeare  and  earlier  poets  furnished  most 
of  the  "properties"  (in  stage  parlance),  the  scenery  is  local,  and  the  management  of  the 
story,  without  the  introduction  of  any  mortals,  is  the  author's  own.  It  is  too  long  for  inser- 
tion in  this  volume,  and  at  the  same  time  it  is  injured  by  mutilation.  The  reader  will  need 
no  further  suggestion  to  take  and  enjoy  it  as  a  whole.  Speculations  upon  what  might  have 
happened  are  not  always  satisfactory,  but  it  is  easy  to  believe  that  if  Drake  had  lived  long 
enough  to  mature  his  powers  and  perfect  his  art,  he  would  have  occupied  a  very  high  place 
among  poets.  In  the  specimens  of  Halleck's  poetry  there  are  some  feeling  and  beautiful 
stanzas  addressed  to  the  memory  of  Drake.  The  Culprit  Fay  is  to  be  found  in  the  book- 
stores, but  no  complete  collection  of  the  author's  poems  has  been  published. 

THE   CULPRIT  FAY. 
III. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  fairy  ban  and  spell ; 
The  wood-tick  has  kept  the  minutes  well ; 
He  has  counted  them  all  with  click  and  stroke 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain  oak, 
And  he  has  awakened  the  sentry  elve, 

Who  sleeps  with  him  in  the  haunted  tree, 
To  bid  him  ring  the  hour  of  twelve, 

And  call  the  fays  to  their  revelry ; 
'    Twelve  small  strokes  on  his  tinkling  bell 
('Twas  made  of  the  white  snail's  pearly  shell),  — 
"  Midnight  comes,  and  all  is  well ; 
Hither,  hither,  wing  your  way  ; 
'Tis  the  dawn  of  the  fairy-day." 

IV. 

They  come  from  beds  of  lichen  green, 
They  creep  from  the  mullein's  velvet  screen ; 


JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE.  I  $5 

Some  on  the  backs  of  beetles  fly 

From  the  silver  tops  of  moon-touched  trees, 
Where  they  swung  in  their  cobweb  hammocks  high, 

And  rocked  about  in  the  evening  breeze ; 
Some  from  the  hum-bird's  downy  nest,  — 

They  had  driven  him  out  by  elfin  power,  — 
And,  pillowed  on  plumes  of  his  rainbow  breast, 

Had  slumbered  there  till  the  charmed  hour ; 
Some  had  lain  in  the  scoop  of  the  rock, 

With  glittering  ising-stars  inlaid  ; 
And  some  had  opened  the  four-o'-clock, 

And  stole  within  its  purple  shade. 
And  now  they  throng  the  moonlight  glade, 

Above,  below,  on  every  side, 
Their  little  minim  forms  arrayed 

In  the  tricksy  pomp  of  fairy  pride. 

xxv. 

He  put  his  acorn  helmet  on  ; 

It  was  plumed  of  the  silk  of  the  thistle-down  ; 

The  corselet-plate,  that  guarded  his  breast, 

Was  once  the  wild  bee's  golden  vest ; 

His  cloak,  of  a  thousand  mingled  dyes, 

Was  formed  of  the  wings  of  butterflies  ; 

His  shield  was  the  shell  of  a  lady-bug  queen, 

Studs  of  gold  on  a  ground  of  green  ; 

And  the  quivering  lance  which  he  brandished  bright 

Was  the  sting  of  a  wasp  he  had  slain  in  fight. 

Swift  he  bestrode  his  firefly  steed  ; 

He  bared  his  blade  of  the  bent-grass  blue  ; 
He  drove  his  spurs  of  the  cockle-seed, 

And  away  like  a  glance  of  thought  he  flew, 
To  skim  the  heavens,  and  follow  far 
The  fiery  trail  of  the  rocket-star. 

XXVII. 

Up  to  the  vaulted  firmament 
His  path  the  firefly  courser  bent, 
And  at  every  gallop  on  the  wind, 
He  flung  a  glittering  spark  behind ; 


156  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

He  flies  like  a  feather  in  the  blast 

Till  the  first  light  cloud  in  heaven  is  past. 

But  the  shapes  of  air  have  begun  their  work, 

And  a  drizzly  mist  is  round  him  cast ; 
He  cannot  see  through  the  mantle  murk, 

He  shivers  with  cold,  but  he  urges  fast ; 
Through  storm  and  darkness,  sleet  and  shade, 

He  lashes  his  steed  and  spurs  amain, 

For  shadowy  hands  have  twitched  the  rein, 
And  flame-shot  tongues  around  him  played, 
And  near  him  many  a  fiendish  eye 
Glared  with  a  fell  malignity, 
And  yells  of  rage,  and  shrieks  of  fear, 
Came  screaming  on  his  startled  ear. 

XXVIII. 

His  wings  are  wet  around  his  breast, 

The  plume  hangs  dripping  from  his  crest, 

His  eyes  are  blurred  by  lightning's  glare, 

And  his  ears  are  stunned  with  the  thunder's  blare  ; 

But  he  gave  a  shout,  and  his  blade  he  drew, 

He  thrust  before  and  he  struck  behind, 
Till  he  pierced  their  cloudy  bodies  through, 

And  gashed  their  shadowy  limbs  of  wind : 
Howling  the  misty  spectres  flew  ; 

They  rend  the  air  with  frightful  cries, 
For  he  has  gained  the  welkin  blue, 

And  the  land  of  clouds  beneath  him  lies. 

XXXI. 

But,  O,  how  fair  the  shape  that  lay 

Beneath  a  rainbow  bending  bright ! 
She  seemed  to  the  entranced  Fay 

The  loveliest  of  the  forms  of  light ; 
Her  mantle  was  the  purple  rolled 

At  twilight  in  the  west  afar  ; 
'Twas  tied  with  threads  of  dawning  gold, 

And  buttoned  with  a  sparkling  star. 
Her  face  was  like  the  lily  roon, 

That  veils  the  vestal  planet's  hue ; 


JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE.  157 

Her  eyes  two  beamlets  from  the  moon, 

Set  floating  in  the  welkin  blue. 
Her  hair  is  like  the  sunny  beam, 
And  the  diamond  gems  which  round  it  gleam 
Are  the  pure  drops  of  dewy  even 
That  ne'er  have  left  their  native  heaven. 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 


WHEN  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there  ; 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

/ 

in. 

Flag  of  the  brave,  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high  ! 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on 
(Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet) 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 


158       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

IV. 

Flag  of  the  seas,  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave  ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

V. 
Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given, 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe,  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil' beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ? 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck  was  born  in  Guilford,  Conn.,  July  8,  1795.  He  removed  to  New 
York  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  entered  a  banking-house  as  clerk,  and  afterwards  became 
book-keeper  in  the  office  of  John  Jacob  Astor.  On  the  death  of  Mr.  Astor,  in  1848,  he 
retired  to  his  native  town,  where  he  resided  until  his  death,  which  occurred  Novem- 
ber 19,  1867. 

Some  of  his  earliest  productions  were  printed  with  Drake's,  and  signed  "  Croaker  &  Co." 
The  poet  did  not  consider  them  worth  preserving,  though  their  local  hits  made  them  popu- 
lar at  the  time.  His  longest  poem  is  entitled  Fanny  ;  it  is  not  above  mediocrity.  Marco 
Bozzaris  is,  doubtless,  his  most  brilliant  lyric,  and  perhaps  should  have  been  printed  here, 
except  that  all  schoolboys  know  it,  and  every  collection  contains  it.  The  Jife  of  Halleck 
appears  devoid  of  incident,  and  his  productions  are  in  a  very  narrow  compass.  Still  his  ver- 
sification is  finished,  and  his  poems  have  a  telling  quality,  like  those  of  his  favorite,  Camp- 
bell ;  and  his  name  bids  fair  to  outlast  many  that  are  connected  with  more  pretentious 
works. 


FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK.  159 

[From  a  poem  on  Burns.] 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 

Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 
Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek. 

And  his  that  music,  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 
In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 

In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 

Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 
And  listened,  and  believed,  and  felt 

The  poet's  mastery 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its  showers, 

O'er  passion's  moments  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  reason's  dark,  cold  hours,  — 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "  die  or  do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
From  throne  to  cottage  hearth  ? 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eye  unshed, 

What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 
When  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled," 

Or  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  is  sung  ! 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 

Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise, 
And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and  love, 

With  "  Logan's  "  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master  lay 

Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 
All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 

Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 
And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 


I6O  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 
And  death's  sublimity. 

And  Burns,  though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod, 

Lived  —  died  —  in  form  and  soul  a  Man, 
The  image  of  his  God. 

Through  care,  and  pain,  and  want,  and  woe, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal, 

Tortures  the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel,  — 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 

And  moved,  in  manhood  as  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 
A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 

A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 
Of  coward  and  of  slave,  — 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 
That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard  !  his  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man  !  a  nation  stood 
Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 

Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 
As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 


FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK.  l6l 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  hallowed  home  of  one 
Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 

Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim  shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined  — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 


ON  THE   DEATH   OF  JOSEPH   RODMAN  DRAKE,   OF  NEW  YORK, 
SEPTEMBER,    l82O. 

"The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket."  WORDSWORTH. 

GREEN  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days, 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 

From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 
And  long  where  thou  art  lying, 

Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts  whose  truth  was  proven, 

Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 
There  should  a  wreath  be  woven, 

To  tell  the  world  their  worth. 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 

To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 
Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 

Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine,  — 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow  ; 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 
II 


l62  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY. 

John  Pendleton  Kennedy  was  born  in  Baltimore,  Md.,  October  25,  1795,  and  received 
his  education  at  the  College  of  Baltimore.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1816.  He 
entered  political  life  in  1820,  as  a  member  of  the  House  of  Delegates.  He  was  a  representa- 
tive in  Congress  for  several  terms,  and  was  one  of  the  recognized  leaders  of  the  Whig  party. 
His  first  attempts  in  literature  were  in  the  columns  of  a  periodical,  entitled  The  Red  Book. 
Swallow  Barn,  a  volume  of  sketches  of  rural  life  in  Virginia,  was  published  in  1832.  Horse- 
shoe Robinson,  a  story  of  the  revolution,  appeared  in  1835.  This  is  a  novel  of  considerable 
merit,  founded  upon  actual  events,  and  dealing  with  historical  personages.  In  1849  he  gave 
to  the  public  an  elaborate  Life  of  William  Wirt,  in  two  vols.,  8vo.  He  has  besides  pub- 
lished occasional  discourses,  &c.  Mr.  Kennedy  was  a  fluent  and  often  elegant  writer,  and 
showed,  in  his  descriptions,  a  love  of  the  beautiful  and  a  refined  taste.  He  continued  to 
reside  in  his  native  city,  and  took  a  deep  interest  in  its  welfare.  He  was  one  of  the  trustees 
selected  by  Mr.  Peabody  for  the  institute  of  letters  and  art  established  in  Baltimore.  He 
died  August  18,  1870.  His  life,  written  by  the  late  Henry  T.  Tuckerman,  appeared  the 
same  year. 

[From  Horse-shoe  Robinson.] 

A  SCHOLAR'S  COUNTRY  HOUSE. 

THE  site  of  the  Dove  Cote  was  eminently  picturesque.  It  was  an 
area  of  level  ground,  containing,  perhaps,  two  acres,  on  the  summit 
of  a  hill  that,  on  one  side,  overhung  the  Rockfish  River,  and  on  the 
other  rose  by  a  gentle  sweep  from  the  champaign  country  below. 
This  summit  might  have  been  as  much  as  two, hundred  feet  above 
the  bed  of  the  stream,  and  was  faced  on  that  side  by  a  bold,  rocky 
precipice,  not  absolutely  perpendicular,  but  broken  into  stages  or 
platforms,  where  grassy  mould  had  accumulated,  and  where  the 
sweet-brier,  and  the  laurel,  and  clusters  of  the  azalea,  shot  up  in  pro- 
fuse luxuriance.  The  fissures  of  the  crag  had  also  collected  their 
handful  of  soil,  and  gave  nourishment  to  struggling  vines,  and  every- 
where the  ash  or  pine,  and  not  unfrequently  the  dogwood,  took. pos- 
session of  such  spots  upon  the  rocky  wall,  as  these  adventurous  and 
cliff-loving  trees  had  found  congenial  to  their  nature.  The  opposite 
or  northern  bank  of  the  river  had  an  equal  elevation,  and  jutted  for- 
ward so  near  to  the  other  as  to  leave  between  them  a  cleft,  which 
suggested  the  idea  of  some  sudden  abruption  of  the  earth  in  those 
early  paroxysms  that  geologists  have  deemed  necessary  to  account 
for  some  of  the  features  of  our  continent  Below  was  heard  the 


JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY.  163 

ceaseless  prattle  of  the  waters,  as  they  ran  over  and  amongst  the 
rocks  which  probably  constituted  the  debris  formed  in  the  convul- 
sion that  opened  this  chasm.  It  was  along  through  this  obscure  dell 
that  the  road,  with  which  my  reader  is  acquainted,  found  place  be- 
tween the  margin  of  tke  stream  and  the  foot  of  the  rocks.  The  gen- 
eral aspect  of  the  country  was  diversified  by  high  knolls  and  broken 
masses  of  mountain  land,  and  the  Dove  Cote  itself  occupied  a  sta- 
tion sufficiently  above  the  surrounding  district  to  give  it  a  prospect 
eastward  of  several  miles  in  extent.  From  this  point  the  eye  might 
trace  the  valley  of  the  Rockfish  by  the  abrupt  hill-sides  that  hemmed 
it  in,  and  by  the  growth  of  sombre  pines  that  coated  the  steeps 
where  nothing  else  could  find  a  foothold.  Not  far  below,  in  this 
direction,  was  to  be  seen  the  Fawn's  Tower,  a  singular  pinnacle  of 
rock,  which  had  acquired  its  name  from  the  protection  it  was  said 
to  have  afforded  to  a  young  deer  against  the  assault  of  the  hounds, 
the  hard-pressed  animal,  as  the  tradition  relates,  having  gained  this 
insulated  point  by  a  bound  that  baffled  the  most  adventurous  of  his 
pursuers,  and  admiration  of  the  successful  boldness  of  the  leap  hav- 
ing won  from  the  huntsman  the  favor  that  spared  his  life.  .  .  . 

The  mansion  itself  partook  of  the  character  of  the  place.  It  was 
perched  —  to  use  a  phrase  peculiarly  applicable  to  its  position  — 
almost  immediately  at  that  point  where  the  terrace  made  an  angle 
with  the  cliff,  being  defended  by  a  stone  parapet,  through  which  an 
iron  wicket  opened  upon  a  flight  of  rough-hewn  steps,  that  termi- 
nated in  a  pathway  leading  down  to  the  river. 

The  main  building  was  of  stone,  consisting  of  one  lofty  story,  and 
capped  with  a  steep  roof,  which  curved  so  far  over  the  front  as  to 
furnish  a  broad  rustic  porch  that  rested  almost  upon  the  ground. 
The  slim  pillars  of  this  porch  were  concealed  by  lattice-work,  which 
was  overgrown  with  creeping  vines  ;  and  the  windows  of  the  con- 
tiguous rooms,  on  either  side  of  a  spacious  hall,  opened  to  the  floor, 
and  looked  out  upon  the  lawn  and  upon  the  quiet  landscape  far  be- 
yond. One  of  these  apartments  was  also  accessible  through  the 
eastern  gable  by  a  private  doorway  shaded  by  a  light  veranda,  and 
was  appropriated  by  Lindsay  to  his  library.  This  portal  seemed 
almost  to  hang  over  the  rock,  having  but  the  breadth  of  the  terrace 
between  it  and  the  declivity,  and  showing  no  other  foreground  than 
the  parapet,  whiclvwas  here  a  necessary  defence  against  the  cliff,  and 
from  which  the  romantic  dell  of  the  river  was  seen  in  all  its  wildness. 

There  were  other  portions  of  the  mansion  constructed  in  the 
same  style  of  architecture,  united  to  this  in  such  a  manner  as  to 


1 64       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

afford  an  uninterrupted  communication,  and  to  furnish  a  range  of 
chambers  for  the  use  of  the  family.  A  rustic  effect  was  everywhere 
preserved.  Stacks  of  chimneys  shot  up  in  grotesque  array,  and 
heavy,  old-fashioned  windows  looked  quaintly  down  from  the  peaked 
roof.  Choice  exotics,  planted  in  boxes,  were  tastefully  arranged 
upon  the  lawn  ;  cages  with  singing-birds  were  suspended  against  the 
wall,  and  the  whole  mass  of  building,  extending  along  the  verge  of 
the  cliff,  so  as  to  occupy  the  entire  diameter  of  the  semicircle,  per- 
haps one  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  sorted  by  its  simplicity  of  costume, 
if  I  may  so  speak,  and  by  its  tidy  beauty,  with  the  close-shaven 
grass-plot  and  its  trim  shades. 

Above  the  whole,  flinging  their  broad  and  gnarled  arms  against 
the  chimney- tops,  and  forming  a  pleasing  contrast  with  the  artificial 
embellishments  of  this  spot,  some  ancient  oaks,  in  primeval  mag- 
nificence, reared  their  time-honored  trunks,  and  no  less  sheltered 
the  habitation  from  the  noontide  heats  than  they  afforded  an  asylum 
to  the  ringdove  and  his  mate,  or  to  the  countless  travellers  of  the 
air  that  here  stopped  for  rest  or  food. 

Such  was  the  general  aspect  of  the  Dove  Cote  —  a  spot  where  a 
philosopher  might  glide  through  life  in  unbroken  contemplation ; 
where  a  wearied  statesman  might  betake  himself  to  reassemble  the 
scattered  forces  of  intellect  for  new  enterprises ;  where  the  artist 
might,  repair  to  study  with  advantage  the  living  graces  of  God's  own. 
painting  ;  and  where  young  beauty  might  bud  and  bloom  amongst 
the  most  delicate  and  graceful  forms  of  earth. 

The  interior  of  the  dwelling  was  capacious  and  comfortable.  Its 
furniture,  suitable  to  the  estate  of  the  owner,  was  plain,  and  adapted 
to  a  munificent  rather  than  to  an  ostentatious  hospitality.  It  was 
only  in  the  library  that  evidence  might  be  seen  of  large  expense. 
Here  the  books  were  ranged  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling,  with 
scarcely  an  interval,  except  where  a  few  choice  paintings  had  found 
space,  or  the  bust  of  some  ancient  worthy.  One  or  two  ponderous 
lounging  chairs  stood  in  the  apartment ;  and  the  footstep  of  th& 
visitor  was  dulled  into  silence  by  the  soft  nap  of  (what,  in  that  day, 
was  a  rare  and  costly  luxury)  a  Turkey  carpet.  This  was,  in  all 
respects,  an  apartment  of  ease,  and  it  was  provided  with  every  incen- 
tive to  beguile  a  student  into  silent  and  luxurious  communion  with 
the  spirit  of  the  sages  around  him  —  whose  subtlest  thoughts  and 
holiest  breathings,  whose  most  volatile  fancies,  had  been  caught  up, 
fixed,  and  turned  into  tangible  substance,  more  indestructible  than 
adamant,  by  the  magic  of  letters. 


JAMES    GATES    PERCIVAL.  1 6$ 

I  have  trespassed  on  the  patience  of  my  reader  to  give  him  a 
somewhat  minute  description  of  the  Dove  Cote,  principally  because 
I  hope  thereby  to  open  his  mind  to  a  more  adequate  conception 
of  the  character  of  Philip  Lindsay.  By  looking  at  a  man  in  his 
own  dwelling,  and  observing  his  domestic  habits,  I  will  venture 
to  affirm  it  shall  scarcely,  in  any  instance,  fail  to  be  true  that,  if 
there  be  seen  a  tasteful  arrangement  of  matters  necessary  to  his 
comfort ;  if  his  household  be  well  ordered,  and  his  walks  clean 
and  well  rolled,  and  his  grass-plots  neat ;  and  if  there  be  no  slov- 
enly inattention  to  repairs,  but  thrift'  against  waste,  and  plenty  for 
all ;  and  if  to  these  be  added  habits  of  early  rising  and  comely 
attire  ;  and,  above  all,  if  there  be  books,  many  books,  well  turned 
and  carefully  tended,  —  that  man  is  one  to  warm  up  at  the  com- 
ing of  a  gentleman  ;  to  open  his  doors  to  him  ;  to  take  him  to 
his  heart,  and  to  do  him  the  kindnesses  of  life.  He  is  a  man  to 
hate  what  is  base,  and  to  stand  apart  from  the  mass,  as  one  who 
will  not  have  his  virtue  tainted.  He  is  a  man,  moreover,  whose 
worldly  craft  may  be  so  smothered  and  suppressed,  in  the  predom- 
inance of  the  household  affections,  that  the  skilful  and  designing, 
alas  !  may  practise  with  success  their  plans  against  him. 


JAMES   GATES   PERCIVAL. 

James  Gates  Percival  was  born  in  the  parish  of  Kensington  and  town  of  Berlin,  Conn., 
September  15,  1795.  He  entered  Yale  College  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  and  a  year  after  his 
graduation  began  the  study  of  medicine.  He  was  not  successful  as  a  practitioner,  principal- 
ly because  the  profession  was  distasteful  to  him.  He  was  for  a  brief  period  a  professor  at 
West  Point,  and  afterwards  a  surgeon  connected  with  the  recruiting  service  in  Boston.  He 
removed  to  New  Haven  in  1827,  where  he  revised  the  translation  of  Malte  Brim's  Geog- 
raphy, and  assisted  Dr.  Noah  Webster  in  the  preparation  of  his  quarto  Dictionary.  In 
1834  he  was  appointed  by  the  governor  to  make  a  geological  survey  of  the  state.  The 
work  proved  much  greater  than  was  expected,  and  his  report  was  not  published  until  1842. 
In  1853  he  went  to  Wisconsin  to  make  a  similar  survey  of  that  state,  and  remained  .there 
until  his  death,  which  occurred  at  Hazel  Green,  May  2,  1857. 

Dr.  Percival  was  an  eminent  scholar,  not  only  in  his  special  pursuits,  but  in  linguistic 
studies.  He  was  familiar  with  many  ancient  languages,  and  with  the  dialects  of  the  Norse, 
Gaelic,  Sclavonic,  and  other  modern  tongues.  His  poems,  which  are  numerous,  were 
generally  written  in  haste,  and  with  little  revision.  A  few  editions  were  published  at  inter- 
vals, but  they  did  not  meet  with  popular  success,  and  the  poet  was  for  most  of  his  life 
miserably  poor.  His  constitutional  melancholy  was  intensified  by  his  failure  to  receive 
sympathy  and  applause  ;  and  some  of  his  bitter  lines,  with  the  interpretation  which  his  mis- 
fortunes furnish,  leave  a  most  painful  impression. 

Percival's  poetry  (though  more  highly  esteemed  forty  years  ago)  fails  to  answer  the 
reader's  expectations,  or  to  hold  the  attention  beyond  half  a  dozen  pages.  He  undoubtedly 


1 66       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

had  a  perception  of  the  beauty  of  nature,  and  there  are  frequent  glimpses  of  this  beauty  in 
his  poems ;  but  they  are  fragmentary,  scattered  hints,  rather  than  completed  pictures,  and 
remind  us  of  the  "broken  crockery"  school  in  the  sister  art  of  music.  His  thoughts,  or, 
rather,  his  phrases,  deflected  by  the  turning  corners  of  rhyme,  run  away  with  him,  taking  a 
new  direction  in  every  verse,  and  leading  into  eddies  of  words  that  even  his  friend  the 
lexicographer  could  not  have  helped  him  out  of,  and  that  make  the  perplexed  reader  wonder 
where,  when,  and  how  the  many-jointed  sentence  is  going  to  end.  Percival  had  his  poetic 
visions,  doubtless,  but  he  forgot  that  the  word  poet  means  maker,  and  he  neglected  the  con- 
tinuous labor  and  thought  that  might  have  shaped  his  glowing  conceptions  into  forms  of 
enduring  beauty.  His  name  and  his  works  belong  to  the  literary  history  of  the  country,  but 
only  a  few  of  his  simpler  poems  will  remain  to  justify  in  some  measure  his  reputation  among 
his  contemporaries. 
His  poems  are  published  in  two  volumes,  iSmo.,  by  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co.,  Boston. 

THE   CORAL  GROVE. 

DEEP  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 

Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove, 

Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue, 

That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 

But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine, 

Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 

The  floor  is  of  sand  like  the  mountain  drift, 

And  the  pearl-shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow ; 

From  coral  rocks  the  sea  plants  lift 

Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow ; 

The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 

For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent  there, 

And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 

In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air : 

There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  green,  , 

The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 

And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 

To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter  : 

There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion, 

The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear,  deep  sea ; 

And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 

Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea ; 

And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 

Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 

And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of  storms 

Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his  own : 

And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 

Where  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar, 

When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies, 


JAMES    GATES    PERCIVAL.  l6/ 

AncJ  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore, 
Then  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea, 
The  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove, 
Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 
Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 


EVENING. 

O  EVENING  !  thou  art  lovely :  —  in  thy  dress 
Of  sober  gray  I  woo  thee,  when  thy  star 
Comes  o'er  the  hazy  hills,  that  rise  afar, 
When  tender  thoughts  upon  my  spirit  press, 
And  with  the  whispering  gales  and  fanning  airs 
The  quiet  swelling  of  my  bosom  pairs  ; 
And  by  the  lake  that  lieth  motionless, 
Low  in  the  secret  hollow,  where  the  shade, 
By  bending  elms  and  drooping  willows  made, 
Displays  its  peaceful  canopy,  and  gives 
A  moving  picture  to  the  lymph  below, 
Where  float  the  sapphire  sky,  the  clouds  of  snow, 
The  evening  streaks,  and  every  swarm  that  lives 
And  murmurs  in  the  dun  air,  and  the  leaves 
That  quiver  in  the  breath  of  night,  and  shine 
With  slowly  gathered  drops,  and  boughs  that  play, 
Rising  and  falling  gently,  he  who  grieves 
For  some  deep-wounding  sorrow,  as  is  mine, 
In  such  a  lonely  shade  his  head  may  lay, 
And  on  the  scented  grass  and  flowers  recline, 
And  gaze  upon  the  lingering  light  of  day. 


REIGN   OF  MAY. 

I  FEEL  a  newer  life  in  every  gale  ; 

The  winds  that  fan  the  flowers, 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the  sail, 

Tell  of  serener  hours,  — 
Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south  wind  calls 
From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 


1 68       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls, 

Beauty  is  budding  there  ; 
The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers  and  awake. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 

A  canopy  of  leaves  ; 
And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west  wind  play, 

And  the  full-brimming  floods, 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 
Hail  the  returning  sun. 


JOHN   GORHAM   PALFREY. 

John  Gorham  Palfrey  was  born  in  Boston,  May  2,  1796,  and  was  graduated  at  Harvard 
College  in  1815.  He  studied  for  the  ministry,  and  was  ordained  as  pastor  of  the  Brattle 
Street  Church,  in  Boston,  succeeding  Edward  Everett  in  that  position.  In  1831  he  was 
appointed  a  professor  in  the  Divinity  School  at  Cambridge,  and  held  the  chair  till  1839,  when 
he  resigned,  and  left  the  clerical  profession.  He  was  editor  of  thexNcrth  American  Review 
from  1835  to  1842.  He  was  secretary  of  the  commonwealth  from  1844  to  1847,  when  he  was 
chosen  a  representative  in  Congress.  At  that  session  the  contest  between  the  north  and 
south  for  the  speakership  was  unusually  violent.  Robert  C.  Winthrop  was  the  candidate  of 
the  Whigs,  and  Howell  Cobb  of  the  Democrats.  Dr.  Palfrey,  who  was  a  distinctive  anti- 
slavery  man,  and  had  previously  emancipated  certain  slaves  which  he  had  inherited  from  a 
southern  relative,  persistently  voted  for  a  third  party  candidate,  so  that  Mr.  Cobb  was 
elected. 

This  action  caused  great  excitement  in  Massachusetts,  and  when  Dr.  Palfrey  was  brought 
forward  for  re-election,  after  seventeen  trials  in  which  there  was  no  choice,  he  was  defeated. 
He  retired  from  public  life  from  that  time,  although  he  has  since  been  postmaster  of  Boston. 

His  earlier  and  professional  works  are,  Evidences  of  Christianity,  two  vols.,  8vo.  (1843) ; 
Lectures  on  the  Jewish  Scriptures  and  Antiquities,  four  vols.,  8vo.  (1838-52)  ;  also  a 
Harmony  of  the  Gospels,  and  various  sermons  and  lectures.  His  last  work,  which  is  more 
properly  within  our  view,  is  his  History  of  New  England,  a  full,  able,  and  mainly  fair 
account  of  the  beginnings  of  the  eastern  colonies.  The  work  consists  of  three  volumes, 
bringing  the  nairative  down  to  1688. 

Dr.  Palfrey's  style  is  clear  and  exact ;  if  it  is  considered  as  lacking  in  vivacity,  it  shows 
conscientious  care,  and  is  free  from  the  verbiage  that  sometimes  passes  for  rhetorical  orna- 
ment. He  resides  at  Cambridge,  Mass. 


JOHN  GORHAM  PALFREY.  169 

[From  the  History  of  New  England.] 
ABORIGINAL   INHABITANTS. 

THESE  people  held  a  low  place  on  the  scale  of  humanity.  Even 
their  physical  capacities  contradicted  the  promise  of  their  external 
conformation.  Supple  and  agile,  so  that  it  was  said  they  would  run 
eighty  or  a  hundred  miles  in  a  day,  and  back  again  in  the  next  two, 
they  sank  under  continuous  labor.  The  lymphatic  temperament 
indicated  the  same  preponderance  in  them  of  "vegetative  nature" 
which  marked  other  animals  of  the  same  continent.  They  scarcely 
wept  or  smiled.  Their  slender  appetites  required  small  indulgence. 
They  could  support  life  on  the  scantiest  quantity  of  food,  and  the 
innutritious  stimulus  of  tobacco  seemed  almost  enough  to  supply 
its  place  ;  though  at  times  a  gormandizing  rage  seemed  to  possess 
them,  and  they  would  be  as  ravenous  in  abundance  as  they  were 
capable  of  being  abstemious  under  necessity.  .  .  . 

Their  demeanor,  so  grave  when  exposed  to  notice,  was  apt  to  be 
taken  for  an  indication  of  self-respect,  but  was  equally  susceptible  of 
being  interpreted  as  betokening  a  mere  stolid  vacuity  of  emotion  and 
thought.  .  .  . 

For  food  the  natives  had  fish  and  game  ;  nuts,  roots,  and  berries 
(and,  in  the  last  resort,  acorns),  which  grew  wild  ;  and  a  few  cul- 
tivated vegetables.  In  the  winter  they  shot,  or  snared,  or  caught  in 
pitfalls,  the  moose,  the  bear,  and  the  deer ;  in  the  summer  still  less 
trouble  procured  for  them  a  variety  of  birds  ;  in  both  seasons,  at 
favorable  times,  the  sea  and  the  rivers  afforded  some  supplies.  .  .  . 

Tobacco  they  cultivated  for  luxury,  using  it  only  in  the  way  of 
smoking.  For  food  they  raised  maize,  or  Indian  corn,  the  squash, 
the  pumpkin,  the  bean  now  called  Seiva-bean,  and  a  species  of  sun- 
flower, whose  esculent  tuberous  root  resembled  the  artichoke  in 
taste.  It  has  been  asserted,  but  without  probability,  that  they  had 
cucumbers  and  watermelons.  One  tool  sufficed  for  their  wretched 
husbandry  —  a  hoe,  made  of  a  clam-shell  or  a  moose's  shoulder-blade, 
fastened  into  a  wooden  handle.  .  .  . 

Fish  were  taken  with  lines  or  nets,  the  cordage  of  which  was 
made  of  twisted  fibres  of  the  dogbane,  or  of  sinews  of  the  deer. 
Hooks  were  fashioned  of  sharpened  bones  of  fishes  and  birds. 

Flesh  and  fish  were  cooked  by  roasting  before  a  fire  on  the  point 
of  a  stake,  broiling  on  hot  coals  or  stones,  or  boiling  in  vessels  of 
stone,  earth,  or  wood.  Water  was  made  to  boil,  not  by  hanging  the 
vessel  over  a  fire,  but  by  the  immersion  in  it  of  heated  stones.  The 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Indians  had  not  the  art  of  making  bread.  They  boiled  their  corn 
either  alone  into  hominy,  or  else  mixed  with  beans,  in  which  case  the 
compound  was  called  succotash;  or  they  ate  the  parched  kernels 
whole  ;  or  with  a  stone  pestle  and  a  wooden  mortar  they  broke  them 
up  into  meal,  which,  moistened  with  water  into  a  paste,  they  called 
nookhik.  With  a  little  of  this  preparation  carried  in  a  bag  at  the 
girdle,  and  a  similar  frugal  outfit  of  tobacco,  they  were  provisioned  for 
a  journey.  Corn  was  laid  up  for  winter  supply  in  holes  dug  in  the 
earth,  and  lined  on  the  sides,  bottom,  and  top  with  bark.  The  Indian 
did  not  feed  at  regular  hours,  but  whenever  hunger  prompted,  or  the 
state  of  his  supplies  allowed.  He  knew  no  drink  but  water,  except 
when  he  could  flavor  it  with  the  sweet  juice,  for  which,  in  spring,  he 
tapped  the  rock-maple  tree.  .  .  . 

His  axe,  hatchet,  chisel,  and  gouge  were  of  hard  stone,  brought  to 
a  sort  of  edge  by  friction  upon  another  stone.  The  helve  of  the  axe 
or  hatchet  was  attached  either  by  a  cord  drawn  tight  around  a  groove 
in  the  stone,  or  by  being  cleft  while  still  unsevered  from  the  tree, 
and  left  to  grow  till  it  closed  fast  around  the  inserted  tool.  Bows 
were  strung  with  the  sinews  and  twisted  entrails  of  the  moose  and 
the  deer.  Arrows  were  tipped  with  bone,  with  claws  of  the  larger 
species  of  birds,  or  with  those  artificially  shaped  triangular  pieces 
of  flint,  which  are  now  often  found  in  the  fields.  Spears  were  of 
similar  contrivance.  Besides  the  stone  hatchet,  as  a  weapon  of 
offence,  was  the  tomahawk,  which  was  merely  a  wooden  club,  two 
feet  or  more  in  length,  terminating  in  a  heavy  knob.  Mats  served 
as  hangings  for  houses,  and,  with  or  without  skins,  according  to  the 
season,  as  couches  for  repose,  for  which  latter  use  they  were  laid 
upon  planks  raised  a  foot  or  two  from  the  ground.  Vessels  of 
basket-work,  of  baked  earth,  or  of  hollowed  wood  or  stone,  com- 
pleted the  scanty  inventory  of  household  furniture.  Personal  orna- 
ments consisted  of  greasy  paint  laid  in  streaks  upon  the  skin  ;  of 
mantles  and  head-gear  made  of  feathers  ;  of  ear-rings,  nose-rings, 
bracelets,  and  necklaces  of  bone,  shells,  or  shining  stones,  and  of 
pieces  of  native  copper,  sometimes  in  plates,  sometimes  strung 
together  so  as  to  make  a  kind  of  fringe.  The  pipe,  with  its  bowl  of 
soft  stone  set  upon  a  stem  of  hard  wood  two  feet  long,  and  often 
elaborately  carved  and  ornamented,  was  a  personal  object  of  special 
consideration.  The  precious  metals  were  unknown,  as  well  as  the 
preparation  of  the  ores  of  those  employed  in  the  useful  arts.  .  .  . 

In  the  absence  of  gold  and  silver,  they  adopted  a  currency  of  what 
was  called  wampum,  or  wampumpeag.  It  consisted  of  cylindrical 


JOHN    GORHAM   PALFREY.  17! 

pieces  of  shells  of  the  testaceous  fishes,  a  quarter  of  an  inch  long  and 
in  diameter  less  than  a  pipe-stem,  drilled  lengthwise  so  as  to  be  strung 
upon  a  thread.  The  beads  of  a  white  color,  rated  at  half  the  value 
of  the  black  or  violet,  passed  each  as  the  equivalent  of  a  farthing  in 
transactions  between  the  natives  and  the  planters.  They  were  used 
for  ornament  as  well  as  for  coin,  and  ten  thousand  have  been  known 
to  be  wrought  into  a  single  war-belt  four  inches  wide.  They  are 
said  to  have  been  an  invention  and  manufacture  of  the  Nar- 
ragansetts,  and  from  them  to  have  come  into  circulation  among 
the  other  tribes.  .  .  . 

His  habits  as  a  hunter  and  a  warrior  demanded  and  provided  a 
peculiar  discipline  for  that  class  of  the  faculties  which  the  phrenol- 
ogists call  perceptive.  His  quick  sense  readily  detected  changes  in 
the  appearance  of  surrounding  objects,  and  discerned  their  bearing 
on  the  purpose  of  the  hour.  He  tracked  his  game  or  his  enemy  by 
indications  on  the  surface  of  the  ground,  in  the  motions  of  trees,  in 
faint  sounds  without  significance  to  another  ear.  No  wonders  of 
nature  or  of  art  stimulated  his  dull  curiosity,  or  lighted  up  his  vacant 
eye.  But  while  his  own  countenance  was  rarely  seen  to  express 
emotion,  he  was  skilled  to  read  the  passions  of  others  in  their  aspect. 

Beyond  this  little  range,  it  is  surprising  to  observe  how  destitute 
he  was  of  mental  culture  or  capacity.  The  proceedings  of  the  second 
generation  before  his  own  were  as  unknown  to  him  as  the  events  of 
the  ancient  world.  In  ballads,  songs,  or  some  other  rhythmical 
form  of  legend,  most  communities  inherit  some  kindling  traditions 
of  the  past.  The  New  England  Indian  had  nothing  of  the  kind,  nor 
of  any  other  poetry.  .  .  . 

There  has  been  a  disposition  to  attribute  to  the  red  man  the  power 
of  eloquent  speech.  Never  was  a  reputation  so  cheaply  earned.  A 
few  allusions  to  familiar  appearances  in  nature,  and  to  habits  of 
animals,  constitute  nearly  all  his  topics  for  oratorical  illustration. 
Take  away  his  commonplaces  of  the  mountain  and  the  thunder,  the 
sunset  and  the  waterfall,  the  eagle  and  the  buffalo,  the  burying  of 
the  hatchet,  the  smoking  of  the  calumet,  and  the  lighting  of  the 
council-fire,  and  the  material  for  his  pomp  of  words  is  reduced  with- 
in contemptible  dimensions.  His  best  attempts  at  reasoning  or 
persuasion  have  been  his  simplest  statements  of  facts,  themselves 
sometimes,  no  doubt,  sufficiently  affecting.  But  whatever  may  be 
thought  of  those  most  favorable  specimens  of  his  oratory  in  other 
parts  of  North  America,  which  must  be  allowed  to  be  for  the  most 
part  of  doubtful  authenticity,  certain  it  is  that  there  is  no  recorded 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

harangue  of  a  New  England  Indian  which  can  assert  a  claim  to 
praise.  Occasions  enough  occurred  for  creditable  exhibitions  in  this 
field.  But  the  gift  of  impressive  speech  was  not  his. 


HORACE   MANN. 

Horace  Mann  was  born  in  Franklin,  Mass.,  May  4,  1796.  His  parents  were  poor,  and 
his  early  life  was  a  season  of  hard  work,  with  few  of  the  circumstances  that  give  to  boyhood 
its  long-remembered  charms.  He  fitted  for  college  in  six  months,  by  an  amount  of  labor 
that  did  him  a  lifelong  injury,  and  entered  the  sophomore  class  in  Brown  University  at  the 
age  of  twenty.  He  studied  law  and  settled  in  Dedham,  but  afterwards  removed  to  Boston. 
He  was  elected  to  the  State  Senate  in  1836,  and  the  following  year  was  chosen  secretary  of 
the  State  Board  of  Education.  The  school  system  of  Massachusetts,  in  its  present  effi- 
ciency, was  almost  wholly  created  by  his  heroic  efforts  and  personal  sacrifices.  Ignorance 
and  routine  stood  in  the  way,  and  his  diary  records  only  a  series  of  struggles,  made  under 
all  kinds  of  discouragements.  He  continued  in  this  office  for  twelve  years,  during  which 
time  he  made  a  series  of  annual  reports,  which  form  a  library  of  educational  science.  Upon 
the  death  of  John  Quincy  Adams,  he  was  chosen  to  represent  his  district  in  Congress,  and 
remained  in  that  service  six  years,  giving  his  whole  heart  and  soul  to  the  anti-slavery  cause. 
In  1853  he  was  invited  to  Ohio,  to  become  president  of  Antioch  College,  at  Yellow  Springs. 
His  life  there  was  full  of  anxiety  and  toil.  The  college  was  new,  in  debt,  and  wanting  in 
almost  all  things.  Many  of  the  people  with  whom  he  was  associated  did  not  share  in 
his  aspirations  for  a  high  standard  of  attainment.  Physical  discomforts  were  numerous 
and  annoying.  He  lived  to  see  great  improvements  in  the  college,  but  not  until  he  was 
worn  out,  mind  and  body,  by  his  life  of  excessive  labor.  He  died  August  2,  1859.  His 
remains  rest  in  a  burying-ground  at  Providence,  R.  I.  His  statue  in  bronze  (not  so  artistic 
as  might  be  desired)  stands  in  the  State  House  yard,  in  Boston,  opposite  to  that  of 
Webster. 

The  writings  of  Mann  are  full  of  good  sense  and  apt  illustration,  and  are  clear,  and  often 
elegant  in  style.  Specimens  could  have  been  taken  which  would  have  better  exhibited  the 
higher  powers  of  his  mind,  but  the  one  here  printed  is  a  useful  part  of  our  history  to  remem- 
ber. His  life,  written  by  his  wife,  with  selections  from  his  works,  has  been  published,  in 
3  vols.,  i2mo.,  by  Lee  &  Shepard,  Boston. 

HOW   SCHOOL-HOUSES   WERE   SOMETIMES  BUILT. 

THE  voice  of  nature  forbids  the  infliction  of  annoyance,  discom- 
fort, pain  upon  a  child  while  engaged  in  study.  If  he  actually  suf- 
fers from  position,  or  heat,  or  cold,  or  fear,  not  only  is  a  portion  of 
the  energy  of  his  mind  withdrawn  from  his  lesson,  —  all  of  which 
should  be  concentrated  upon  it,  —  but  at  that  undiscriminating  age 
the  pain  blends  itself  with  the  study,  makes  part  of  the  remembrance 
of  it,  and  thus  curiosity  and  the  love  of  learning  are  deadened,  or 


HORACE    MANN.  173 

turned  away  towards  vicious  objects.  This  is  the  philosophy  of 
children's  hating  study.  We  insulate  them  by  fear  ;  we  touch  them 
with  non-conductors,  and  then,  because  they  emit  no  spark,  we 
gravely  aver  that  they  are  non-electric  bodies.  If  possible,  pleasure 
should  be  made  to  flow  like  a  sweet  atmosphere  around  the  early 
learner,  and  pain  be  kept  beyond  the  association  of  ideas.  You 
cannot  open  blossoms  with  a  north-east  storm.  The  buds  of 
the  hardiest  plants  will  wait  for  the  genial  influences  of  the  sun, 
though  they  perish  while  waiting.  The  first  practical  application 
of  these  truths,  in  relation  to  our  common  schools,  is  to  school-house 
architecture  —  a  subject  so  little  regarded,  yet  so  vitally  important. 
The  construction  of  school-houses  involves,  not  the  love  of  study 
and  proficiency  only,  but  health  and  length  of  life.  I  have  the  testi- 
mony of  many  eminent  physicians  to  this  fact.  They  assure  me  that 
it  is  within  their  own  personal  knowledge,  that  there  is  annually  loss 
of  life,  destruction  of  health,  and  such  anatomical  distortion  as  ren- 
ders life  hardly  worth  possessing,  growing  out  of  the  bad  construc- 
tion of  our  school-houses.  Nor  is  this  evil  confined  to  a  few  of  them 
only ;  it  is  a  very  general  calamity.  I  have  seen  many  school- 
houses,  in  central  districts  of  rich  and  populous  towns,  where  each 
seat  connected  with  a  desk  consisted  only  of  an  upright  post  or 
pedestal,  jutting  up  out  of  the  floor,  the  upper  end  of  which  was 
only  about  eight  or  ten  inches  square,  without  side-arms  or  back- 
board, and  some  of  them  so  high  that  the  feet  of  the  children  in  vain 
sought  after  the  floor.  They  were  beyond  soundings.  Yet,  on  the 
hard  top  of  these  stumps  the  masters  and  misses  of  the  school  must 
balance  themselves,  as  well  as  they  can,  for  six  hours  in  a  day.  All 
attempts  to  preserve  silence  in  such  a  house  are  not  only  vain,  but 
cruel.  Nothing  but  absolute  impalement  could  keep  a  live  child 
still  on  such  a  seat,  and  you  would  hardly  think  him  worth  living 
if  it  could.  The  pupils  will  resort  to  every  possible  bodily  evolution 
for  relief;  and  after  all,  though  they  may  change  the  place,  they  keep 
the  pain.  I  have  good  reasons  for  remembering  one  of  another  class 
of  school-houses,  which  the  scientific  would  probably  call  the  sixth 
order  of  architecture,  —  the  wicker-work  order ;  summer  houses  for 
winter  residences,  —  where  there  never  was  a  severely  cold  day  with- 
out the  ink's  freezing  in  the  pens  of  the  scholars  while  they  were 
writing  ;  and  the  teacher  was  literally  obliged  to  compromise  between 
the  sufferings  of  those  who  were  exposed  to  the  cold  of  the  win- 
dows and  those  exposed  to  the  heat  of  the  fire,  by  not  raising  the 
thermometer  of  the  latter  above  ninety  degrees,  until  that  of  the 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

former  fell  below  thirty.  A  part  of  the  children  suffered  the  arctic 
cold  of  Captains  Ross  and  Parry,  and  a  part  the  torrid  heat  of  the 
Landers,  without,  in  either  case,  winning  the  honors  of  a  discoverer. 
It  was  an  excellent  place  for  the  teacher  to  illustrate  one  of  the  facts 
in  geography,  for  five  steps  would  have  carried  him  through  the  five 
zones.  Just  before  my  present  circuit,  I  passed  a  school-house,  the 
roof  of  which,  on  one  side,  was  trough-like,  and  down  towards  the 
eaves  there  was  a  large  hole,  so  that  the  whole  operated  like  a  tun- 
nel to  catch  all  the  rain  and  pour  it  into  the  school-room.  At  first, 
I  did  not  know  but  it  might  be  some  apparatus  designed  to  explain 
the  Deluge.  I  called  and  inquired  of  the  mistress  if  she  and  her 
little  ones  were  not  sometimes  drowned  out.  She  said  she  should 
be,  only  that  the  floor  leaked  as  badly  as  the  roof,  and  drained  off 
the  water.  And  yet  a  healthful,  comfortable  school-house  can  be 
erected  as  cheaply  as  one  which,  judging  from  its  construction,  you 
would  say  had  been  dedicated  to  the  evil  genius  of  deformity  and 
suffering.  There  is  another  evil  in  the  construction  of  our  school- 
houses,  whose  immediate  consequences  are  not  so  bad,  though  their 
remote  ones  are  infinitely  worse.  No  fact  is  now  better  estab- 
lished, than  that  a  man  cannot  live  without  a  supply  of  about  a  gal- 
lon of  fresh  air  every  minute,  nor  enjoy  good  health,  indeed,  without 
much  more.  The  common  air,  as  is  now  well  known,  is  mainly 
composed  of  two  ingredients,  one  only  of  which  can  sustain  life. 
The  action  of  the  lungs  upon  the  vital  portion  of  the  air  changes 
its  very  nature,  converting  it  from  a  life-sustaining  to  a  life- 
destroying  element.  As  we  inhale  a  portion  of  the  atmosphere, 
it  is  healthful ;  the  same  portion,  as  we  exhale  it,  is  poisonous. 
Hence  ventilation  in  rooms,  especially  where  large  numbers  are 
collected,  is  a  condition  of  health  and  life.  Privation  admits  of 
no  excuse.  To  deprive  a  child  of  comfortable  clothes,  or  whole- 
some food,  or  fuel,  may  sometimes,  possibly,  be  palliated.  These 
cost  money,  and  often  draw  hardly  upon  the  scanty  resources  of 
the  poor.  But  what  shall  we  say  of  stinting  and  starving  a  child 
in  regard  to  the  prime  necessary  of  life  —  fresh  air  ?  of  holding 
his  mouth,  as  it  were,  lest  he  should  obtain  a  sufficiency  of  that 
vital  element  which  God,  in  his  munificence,  has  poured  out,  a 
hundred  miles  deep,  all  around  the  globe  ?  Of  productions,  reared 
or  transported  by  human  toil,  there  may  be  a  dearth.  At  any 
rate,  frugality  in  such  things  is  commendable.  But  to  put  a  child 
on  short  allowances  out  of  this  sky-full  of  air  is  enough  to  make 
a  miser  weep.  It  is  as  absurd  as  it  would  have  been  for  Noah, 


WILLIAM    HICKLING    PRESCOTT.  175 

while  the  torrents  of  rain  were  still  descending,  to  have  put  his 
family  upon  short  allowances  of  water.  This  vast  quantity  of  air 
was  given  us  to  supersede  the  necessity  of  ever  using  it  at  second 
hand.  Heaven  has  ordained  this  matter  with  adorable  wisdom. 
That  very  portion  of  the  air  which  we  turn  into  poison  by  respir- 
ing it,  becomes  the  aliment  of  vegetation.  What  is  death  to  us, 
is  life  to  all  verdure  and  flovverage.  And  again,  vegetation  rejects 
the  ingredient  which  is  life  to  us.  Thus  the  equilibrium  is  forever 
restored,  or,  rather,  it  is  never  destroyed.  In  this  perpetual  circuit, 
the  atmosphere  is  forever  renovated,  and  made  the  sustainer  of  life, 
both  for  the  animal  and  vegetable  worlds. 


WILLIAM   HICKLING  PRESCOTT. 

William  Hickling  Prescott  was  born  at  Salem.  Mass.,  May  4,  1796.  He  entered  Harvard 
College  in  1811,  and  had  intended  on  graduation  to  study  law,  but  an  injury  to  one  of  his  eyes, 
received  while  in  college,  so  far  impaired  his  sight  that  his  plans  in  life  were  changed.  He 
sailed  to  Europe  to  consult  eminent  oculists,  but  received  no  benefit  from  their  treatment. 
After  two  years  he  returned  home  and  commenced  literary  studies,  with  the  aid  of  a  reader 
and  amanuensis.  His  first  work,  the  History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  appeared  in  1837, 
having  cost  the  author  more  than  ten  years  of  labor.  The  Conquest  of  Mexico  was  pub- 
lished in  1843,  and  the  Conquest  of  Peru  in  1847.  He  next  undertook  the  History  .of 
Philip  II.  ;  two  volumes  were  published  in  1855,  and  a  third  in  1858.  The  work  was  unfin- 
ished at  the  time  of  his  death,  which  occurred  in  Boston,  January  28,  1859. 

By  common  consent,  Prescott  is  accorded  the  first  place  among  our  historians.  •  In  spite 
of  his  partial  blindness,  his  surroundings  were  highly  fortunate.  He  inherited  a  good,  but 
not  a  great  intellect,  had  scholastic  training,  abundant  wealth,  the  aid  of  friendly  criticism, 
and  the  choice  of  new  and  untrodden  fields.  His  histories  are  based  on  a  thorough  study 
of  original  documents,  and  are  composed  with  exceeding  care.  Contrary  to  the  usual  ten- 
dency, his  fondness  for  pictorial  effect  seemed  to  increase,  and  his  last  work  is,  more  than 
any  former  one,  filled  with  brilliant  scenes  and  episodes.  But  he  was  not  a  philosopher,  and 
made  no  attempt  to  deduce  the  political  and  moral  laws  of  history ;  and,  besides,  he  is  often 
cool  in  the  narration  of  atrocities  which  would  make  most  men's  sentences  blaze  with  indig- 
nation. 

Besides  the  histories  mentioned,  he  wrote  a  continuation  of  Robertson's  History  of 
Charles  V.,  giving  an  account  of  the  cloister  life  of  that  monarch.  He  published,  also,  a 
volume  of  miscellanies,  mostly  essays,  written  for  the  North  American  Review. 

Mr.  Prescott  was  a  tall  and  handsome  man,  with  singularly  pleasing  manners  and 
thoroughly  amiable  character.  His  habits  were  methodical,  and  his  ample  fortune  enabled 
him  to  gratify  his  tastes.  He  had  three  residences,  —  all  charming  in  their  way,  — one  in 
Beacon  Street,  Boston,  facing  the  Common,  one  at  Lynn,  with  a  magnificent  ocean  view, 
and  another  at  Pepperell,  the  home  of  his  grandfather,  who  commanded  the  American  forces 
at  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill.  His  migrations  accorded  with  the  seasons  ;  and,  such  was  the 
perfection  of  his  domestic  arrangements,  that  he  had  only  to  wish  for  a  change,  and,  like 
Prince  Houssain  with  his  magic  carpet,  he  found  himself  in  the  desired  place,  with  his 
necessary  books,  and  other  conveniences,  ready  to  his  hand.  His  library  in  Boston  was  a 
beautiful  room,  filled  with  treasures  of  literature  and  art.  The  visitor,  upon  entering,  might 


1/6       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

be  surprised  to  find  the  author  absent,  but,  if  it  was  a  favorable  time,  a  section  of  the  shelves 
swung  open,  disclosing  a  passage  to  the  plain  upper  room  where  the  real  work  of  the  author 
was  done. 

The  reader  will  see  a  reference  to  a  pair  of  swords,  that  belonged  to  Mr.  Prescott,  in  the 
first  chapter  of  Thackeray's  Virginians.  The  swords  are  now  in  the  rooms  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts Historical  Society. 

Prescott's  histories  have  a  great  and  undiminished  popularity,  both  in  England  and 
America.  In  a  single  year  over  forty  thousand  volumes  of  his  works  were  sold  by  his  Bos- 
ton publishers.  They  belong  to  that  small  class  of  books  which  have  a  solid  basis  of  fact, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  fascination  of  romance. 

[From  the  History  of  Phillip  II.] 
THE   BATTLE   OF   LEPANTO. 

IT  was  two  hours  before  dawn  on  Sunday,  the  memorable  7th 
of  October  (1571),  when  the  fleet  weighed  anchor.  The  wind  had 
become  lighter,  but  it  was  still  contrary,  and  the  galleys  were  in- 
debted for  their  progress  much  more  to  their  oars  than  their  sails. 
By  sunrise  they  were  abreast  of  the  Curzolari,  a  cluster  of  huge 
rocks,  or  rocky  islets,  which  on  the  north  defends  the  entrance 
of  the  Gulf  of  Lepanto.  The  fleet  moved  laboriously  along,  while 
every  eye  was  strained  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  hostile 
navy.  At  length  the  watch  on  the  fore-top  of  the  Real  called  out 
"  A  sail ! "  and  soon  after  declared  that  the  whole  Ottoman  fleet 
was  in  sight.  Several  others,  climbing  up  the  rigging,  confirmed 
his  report,  and  in  a  few  moments  more  word  was  sent  to  the 
same  effect  by  Andrew  Doria,  who  commanded  on  the  right. 
There  was  no  longer  any  doubt,  and  Don  John,  ordering  his  pen- 
non to  be  displayed  at  the  mizzen-peak,  unfurled  the  great  stan- 
dard of  the  League,  given  by  the  pope,  and  directed  a  gun  to  be 
fired,  the  signal  for  battle.  The  report,  as  it  ran  along  the  rocky 
shores,  fell  cheerily  on  the  ears  of  the  confederates,  who,  raising 
their  eyes  towards  the  consecrated  banner,  filled  the  air  with  their 
shouts. 

The  principal  captains  now  came  on  board  the  Real,  to  receive 
the  last  orders  of  the  commander-in-chief.  Even  at  this  late  hour, 
there  were  some  who  ventured  to  intimate  their  doubts  of  the  ex- 
pediency of  engaging  the  enemy  in  a  position  where  he  had  a 
decided  advantage.  But  Don  John  cut  short  the  discussion.  "  Gen- 
tlemen," he  said,  "this  is  the  time  for  combat,  not  for  counsel." 
He  then  continued  the  dispositions  he  was  making  for  the  attack. 
He  had  already  given  to  each  commander  of  a  galley  written  in- 
structions as  to  the  manner  in  which  the  line  of  battle  was  to  be 
formed  in  case  of  meeting  the  enemy.  The  armada  was  now  dis- 


WILLIAM   HICKLING   PRESCOTT.  1 77 

posed  in  that  order.  It  extended  on  a  front  of  three  miles.  Far 
on  the  right  a  squadron  of  sixty-four  galleys  was  commanded  by 
the  Genoese  admiral,  Andrew  Doria,  —  a  name  of  terror  to  the 
Moslems.  The  centre,  or  battle,  as  it  was  called,  consisting  of 
sixty- three  galleys,  was  led  by  John  of  Austria,  who  was  supported 
on  the  one  side  by  Colonna,  the  captain  general  of  the  pope,  and  on 
the  other  by  the  Venetian  captain  general,  Veniero.  Immediately 
in  the  rear  was  the  galley  of  the  Grand-Commander  Requesens, 
who  still  remained  near  the  person  of  his  former  pupil,  though  a 
difference  which  arose  between  them  on  the  voyage,  fortunately 
now  healed,  showed  that  the  young  commander-in-chief  was  wholly 
independent  of  his  teacher  in  the  art  of  war. 

The  left  wing  was  commanded  by  the  noble  Venetian  Barbarigo, 
whose  vessels  stretched  along  the  yfctolian  shore,  to  which  he  ap- 
proached as  near  as,  in  his  ignorance  of  the  coast,  he  dared  to  ven- 
ture, so  as  to  prevent  his  being  turned  by  the  enemy.  Finally,  the 
reserve,  consisting  of  thirty-five  galleys,  was  given  to  the  brave 
Marquis  of  Santa  Cruz,  with  directions  to  act  in  any  quarter  where 
he  thought  his  presence  most  needed.  The  smaller  craft,  some  of 
which  had  now  arrived,  seem  to  have  taken  little  part  in  the  action, 
which  was  thus  left  to  the  galleys. 

Each  commander  was  to  occupy  so  much  space  with  his  galley 
as  to  allow  room  for  manoeuvring  it  to  advantage,  and  yet  not 
enough  to  allow  the  enemy  to  break  the  line.  He  was  directed  to 
single  out  his  adversary,  to  close  with  him  at  once,  and  board  as 
soon  as  possible.  The  beaks  of  the  galleys  were  pronounced  to  be 
a  hinderance  rather  than  a  help  in  action.  They  were  rarely  strong 
enough  to  resist  a  shock  from  an  antagonist,  and  they  much  inter- 
fered with  the  working  and  firing  of  the  guns.  Don  John  had  the 
beak  of  his  vessel  cut  away.  The  example  was  followed  throughout 
the  fleet,  and,  as  it  is  said,  with  eminently  good  effect.  It  may  seem 
strange  that  this  discovery  should  have  been  reserved  for  the  crisis 
of  a  battle.  .  .  . 

The  Ottoman  fleet  came  on  slowly  and  with  difficulty.  For, 
strange  to  say,  the  wind,  which  had  hitherto  been  adverse  to  the 
Christians,  after  lulling  for  a  time  suddenly  shifted  to  the  opposite 
quarter,  and  blew  in  the  face  of  the  enemy.  As  the  day  advanced, 
moreover,  the  sun,  which  had  shonft  in  the  eyes  of  the  confederates, 
gradually  shot  its  rays  into  those  of  the  Moslems.  Both  circum- 
stances were  of  good  omen  to  the  Christians,  and  the  first  was  re- 
garded as  nothing  short  of  a  direct  interposition  from  Heaven. 
12 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Thus  ploughing  its  way  along,  the  Turkish  armament,  as  it  came 
more  into  view,  showed  itself  in  greater  strength  than  had  been 
anticipated  by  the  allies.  It  consisted  of  nearly  two  hundred  and 
fifty  royal  galleys,  most  of  them  of  the  largest  class,  besides  a  num- 
ber of  smaller  vessels  in  the  rear,  which,  like  those  of  the  allies, 
appear  scarcely  to  have  come  into  action.  The  men  on  board,  of 
every  description,  were  computed  at  not  less  than  a  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand.  The  galleys  spread  out,  as  usual  with  the  Turks, 
in  the  form  of  a  regular  half-moon,  covering  a  wider  extent  of  sur- 
face than  the  combined  fleets,  which  they  somewhat  exceeded  in 
number.  They  presented,  indeed,  as  they  drew  near,  a  magnificent 
array,  with  their  gilded  and  gaudily-painted  prows,  and  their  myriads 
of  pennons  and  streamers  fluttering  gayly  in  the  breeze  ;  while  the 
rays  of  the  morning  sun  glanced  on  the  polished  scimitars  of  Da- 
mascus, and  on  the  superb  aigrettes  of  jewels  which  sparkled  in  the 
turbans  of  the  Ottoman  chiefs. 

In  the  centre  of  the  extended  line,  and  directly  opposite  to  the 
station  occupied  by  the  captain-general  of  the  League,  was  the  huge 
galley  of  Ali  Pacha.  The  right  of  the  armada  was  commanded  by 
Mahomet  Sirocco,  viceroy  of  Egypt,  a  circumspect  as  well  as  a  cou- 
rageous leader  ;  the  left  by  Uluch  Ali,  dey  of  Algiers,  the  redoubt- 
able corsair  of  the  Mediterranean.  Ali  Pacha  had  experienced  a 
difficulty  like  that  of  Don  John,  as  several  of  his  officers  had  strongly 
urged  the  inexpediency  of  engaging  so  formidable  an  armament  as 
that  of  the  allies.  But  Ali,  like  his  rival,  was  young  and  ambitious. 
He  had  been  sent  by  his  master  to  fight  the  enemy,  and  no  remon- 
strances, not  even  those  of  Mahomet  Sirocco,  for  whom  he  had  great 
respect,  could  turn  him  from  his  purpose. 

He  had,  moreover,  received  intelligence  that  the  allied  fleet  was 
much  inferior  in  strength  to  what  it  proved.  In  this  error  he  was  for- 
tified by  the  first  appearance  of  the  Christians,  for  the  extremity  of 
their  left  wing,  commanded  by  Barbarigo,  stretching  behind  the 
^tolian  shore,  was  hidden  from  his  view.  As  he  drew  nearer,  and 
saw  the  whole  extent  of  the  Christian  lines,  it  is  said  his  countenance 
fell.  If  so,  he  still  did  not  abate  one  jot  of  his  resolution.  He  spoke 
to  those  around  him,  with  the  same  confidence  as  before,  of  the  result 
of  the  battle.  He  urged  his  rowers  to  strain  every  nerve.  Ali  was 
a  man  of  more  humanity  in  his  nature  than  often  belonged  to  his  na- 
tion. His  galley-slaves  were  all,  or  nearly  all,  Christian  captives, 
and  he  addressed  them  in  this  brief  and  pithy  manner :  "  If  your 
countrymen  are  to  win  this  day,  Allah  will  give  you  the  benefit  of  it, 


WILLIAM    HICKLING   PRESCOTT.  179 

yet  if  I  win  it,  you  shall  certainly  have  your  freedom.  If  you  feel 
that  I  do  well  by  you,  do  then  the  like  by  me."  .  .  . 

When  the  foremost  vessels  of  the  Turks  had  come  within  cannon 
shot,  they  opened  their  fire  on  the  Christians.  The  firing  soon 
ran  along  the  whole  of  the  Turkish  line,  and  was  kept  up,  with- 
out interruption,  as  it  advanced.  Don  John  gave  orders  for  trumpet 
and  atabal  to  sound  the  signal  for  action,  which  was  followed  by 
the  simultaneous  discharge  of  such  of  the  guns  in  the  combined 
fleet  as  could  be  brought  to  bear  on  the  enemy.  The  Spanish  com- 
mander had  caused  the  galleazzas,  those  mammoth  war  ships,  of 
which  some  account  has  been  already  given,  to  be  towed  half  a  mile 
ahead  of  the  fleet,  where  they  might  intercept  the  advance  of  the 
Turks.  As  the  latter  came  abreast  of  them,  the  huge  galleys  deliv- 
ered their  broadsides  right  and  left,  and  their  heavy  ordnance  pro- 
duced a  startling  effect.  Ali  Pacha  gave  orders  for  his  galleys  to 
open  their  line  and  pass  on  either  side,  without  engaging  these  mon- 
sters of  the  deep,  of  which  he  had  no  experience.  Even  so,  their 
heavy  guns  did  considerable  damage  to  several  of  the  nearest  ves- 
sels, and  created  some  confusion  in  the  pacha's  line  of  battle.  They 
were,  however,  but  unwieldy  craft,  and,  having  accomplished  their 
object,  seem  to  have  taken  no  further  part  in  the  combat. 

The  action  began  on  the  left  wing  of  the  allies,  which  Mahomet 
Sirocco  was  desirous  of  turning.  This  had  been  anticipated  by  Bar- 
barigo,  the  Venetian  admiral,  who  commanded  in  that  quarter.  To 
prevent  it,  as  we  have  seen,  he  lay  with  his  vessels  as  near  the  coast 
as  he  dared.  Sirocco,  better  acquainted  with  the  surroundings,  saw 
there  was  space  enough  for  him  to  pass,  and  darting  by  with  all  the 
speed  that  oars  could  give  him,  he  succeeded  in  doubling  on  his 
enemy.  Thus  placed  between  two  fires,. the  extreme  of  the  Christian 
left  fought  at  terrible  disadvantage.  No  less  than  eight  galleys  went 
to  the  bottom,  and  several  others  were  captured.  The  brave  Bar- 
barigo,  throwing  himself  into  the  heat  of  the  fight,  without  availing 
himself  of  his  defensive  armor,  was  pierced  in  the  eye  by  an  arrow, 
and,  reluctant  to  leave  the  glory  of  the  field  to  another,  was  borne  to 
his  cabin.  The  combat  still  continued,  with  unabated  fury,  on  the 
part  of  the  Venetians.  They  fought  like  men  who  felt  that  the  war 
was  theirs,  and  who  were  animated  not  oniy  by  the  thirst  for  glory, 
but  for  revenge. 

Far  on  the  Christian  right  a  manoeuvre,  similar  to  that  so  success- 
fully executed  by  Sirocco,  was  attempted  by  Uluch  Ali,  the  dey  of 
Algiers.  Profiting  by  his  superiority  in  numbers,  he  endeavored  to 
turn  the  right  wing  of  the  confederates.  It  was  in  this  quarter  that 


l8O  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

Andrew  Doria  commanded.  He  had  foreseen  this  movement  of  his 
enemy,  and  he  succeeded  in  foiling  it.  It  was  a  trial  of  skill  between 
the  two  most  accomplished  seamen  in  the  Mediterranean.  Doria 
extended  his  line  so  far  to  the  right,  indeed,  to  prevent  being  sur- 
rounded, that  Don  John  was  obliged  to  remind  him  that  he  left  the 
centre  too  much  exposed.  His  dispositions  were  so  far  unfortunate 
for  himself  that  his  own  line  was  thus  weakened,  and  afforded  some 
vulnerable  points  to  his  assailant.  These  were  soon  detected  by  the 
eagle  eye  of  Uluch  Ali,  and,  like  the  king  of  birds  swooping  on  his 
prey,  he  fell  on  some  galleys  separated  by  a  considerable  interval 
from  their  companions,  and,  sinking  more  than  one,  carried  off  the 
great  Capitana  of  Malta  in  triumph  as  his  prize. 

While  the  combat  opened  thus  disastrously  to  the  allies,  both  on 
the  right  and  on  the  left,  in  the  centre  they  may  be  said  to  have 
fought  with  doubtful  fortune.  Don  John  had  led  his  division  gal- 
lantly forward.  But  the  object  on  which  he  was  intent  was  an  en- 
counter with  Ali  Pacha,  the  foe  most  worthy  of  his  sword.  The 
Turkish  commander  had  the  same  combat  no  less  at  heart.  The 
galleys  of  both  were  easily  recognized,  not  only  from  their  position, 
but  from  their  superior  size  and  richer  decoration.  The  one,  more- 
over, displayed  the  holy  banner  of  the  League,  the  other  the  great 
Ottoman  standard.  This,  like  the  ancient  standard  of  the  caliphs, 
was  held  sacred  in  its  character.  It  was  covered  with  texts  from 
the  Koran,  emblazoned  in  letters  of  gold,  and  had  the  name  of  Allah 
inscribed  upon  it  no  less  than  twenty-eight  thousand  nine  hundred 
times.  It  was  the  banner  of  the  sultan,  having  passed  from  father 
to  son  since  the  foundation  of  the  imperial  dynasty,  and  was  never 
seen  in  the  field  unless  the  grand  seignior  or  his  lieutenant  was 
there  in  person. 

Both  the  chiefs  urged  on  their  rowers  to  the  top  of  their  speed. 
Their  galleys  soon  shot  ahead  of  the  rest  of  the  line,  driven  through 
the  boiling  surges  as  by  the  force  of  a  tornado,  and  closed  with  a 
shock  that  made  every  timber  crack  and  the  two  vessels  quiver  to 
their  very  keels.  So  powerful,  indeed,  was  the  impetus  they  re- 
ceived, that  the  pacha's  galley,  which  was  considerably  the  larger 
and  loftier  of  the  two,  was  thrown  so  far  upon  its  opponent  that 
the  prow  reached  the  fourth  bench  of  rowers.  As  soon  as  the  ves- 
sels were  disengaged  from  each  other,  and  those  on  board  had  re- 
covered from  the  shock,  the  work  of  death  began.  Don  John's  chief 
strength  consisted  of  some  three  hundred  Spanish  arquebusiers, 
culled  from  the  flower  of  his  infantry.  Ali,  on  the  other  hand,  was 


WILLIAM   HICKLING   PRESCOTT.  l8l 

provided  with  an  equal  number  of  janizaries.  He  was  followed  by 
a  smaller  vessel,  in  which  two  hundred  more  were  stationed  as  a 
corps  de  reserve.  He  had,  moreover,  a  hundred  archers  on  board. 
The  bow  was  still  as  much  in  use  with  the  Turks  as  with  the  other 
Moslems. 

The  pacha  opened  at  once  on  his  enemy  a  terrible  fire  of  cannon 
and  musketry.  It  was  returned  with  equal  spirit  and  much  more 
effect,  for  the  Turks  were  observed  to  shoot  over  the  heads  of  their 
adversaries.  The  Moslem  galley  was  unprovided  with  the  defences 
which  protected  the  sides  of  the  Spanish  vessels,  and  the  troops, 
crowded  together  on  the  lofty  prow,  presented  an  easy  mark  to  their 
enemies'  balls.  But  though  numbers  of  them  fell  at  every  discharge, 
their  places  were  soon  supplied  by  those  in  reserve.  They  were 
enabled,  therefore,  to  keep  up  an  incessant  fire,  which  wasted  the 
strength  of  the  Spaniards,  and  as  both  Christian  and  Mussulman 
fought  with  indomitable  spirit,  it  seemed  doubtful  to  which  side  vic- 
tory would  incline.  .  .  . 

Thus  the  fight  raged  along  the  whole  extent  of  the  entrance  to  the 
Gulf  of  Lepanto.  The  volumes  of  vapor  rolling  heavily  over  the 
waters  effectually  shut  out  from  sight  whatever  was  passing  at  any 
considerable  distance,  unless  when  a  fresher  breeze  dispelled  the 
smoke  for  a  moment,  or  the  flashes  of  the  heavy  guns  threw  a  tran- 
sient gleam  on  the  dark  canopy  of  battle.  If  the  eye  of  the  spectator 
could  have  penetrated  the  cloud  of  smoke  that  enveloped  the  com- 
batants, and  have  embraced  the  whole  scene  at  a  glance,  he  would 
have  perceived  them  broken  up  into  small  detachments,  separately 
engaged  one  with  another,  independently  of  the  rest,  and  indeed 
ignorant  of  all  that  was  doing  in  other  quarters. 

The  contest  exhibited  few  of  those  large  combinations  and  skilful 
manoeuvres  to  be  expected  in  a  great  naval  encounter.  It  was  rather 
an  assemblage  of  petty  actions,  resembling  those  on  land.  The  gal- 
leys, grappling  together,  presented  a  level  arena,  on  which  soldier 
and  galley-slave  fought  hand  to  hand,  and  the  fate  of  the  engagement 
was  generally  decided  by  boarding.  As  in  most  hand-to-hand  con- 
tests, there  was  an  enormous  waste  of  life.  The  decks  were  loaded 
with  corpses,  Christian  and  Moslem  lying  promiscuously  together  in 
the  embrace  of  death.  Instances  are  recorded  where  every  man  on 
board  was  slain  or  wounded.  It  was  a  ghastly  spectacle,  where 
blood  flowed  in  rivulets  down  the  sides  of  the  vessels,  staining  the 
waters  of  the  gulf  for  miles  around. 

It  seemed  as  if  a  hurricane  had  swept  over  the  sea,  and  covered 


1 82       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

it  with  the  wreck  of  the  noble  armaments  which  a  moment  before 
were  so  proudly  riding  on  its  bosom.  Little  had  they  now  to  remind 
one  of  their  late  magnificent  array,  with  their  hulls  battered,  their 
masts  and  spars  gone  or  splintered  by  the  shot,  their  canvas  cut 
into  shreds  and  floating  wildly  on  the  breeze,  while  thousands  of 
wounded  and  drowning  men  were  clinging  to  the  floating  fragments, 
and  calling  piteously  for  help.  Such  was  the  wild  uproar  which  suc- 
ceeded the  Sabbath-like  stillness  that  two  hours  before  had  reigned 
over  these  beautiful  solitudes. 

The  left  wing  of  the  confederates,  commanded  by  Barbarigo,  had 
been  sorely  pressed  by  the  Turks,  as  we  have  seen,  at  the  beginning 
of  the  fight.  Barbarigo  himself  had  been  mortally  wounded.  His 
line  had  been  turned.  Several  of  his  galleys  had  been  sunk.  But 
the  Venetians  gathered  courage  from  despair.  By  incredible  efforts 
they  succeeded  in  beating  off  their  enemies.  They  became  the  assail- 
ants in  their  turn.  Sword  in  hand,  they  carried  one  vessel  after 
another.  The  Capuchin  was  seen  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  waving 
aloft  his  crucifix,  and  leading  the  boarders  to  the  assault.  The 
Christian  galley-slaves,  in  some  instances,  broke  their  fetters  and 
joined  their  countrymen  against  their  masters.  Fortunately  the 
vessel  of  Mahomet  Sirocco,  the  Moslem  admiral,  was  sunk,  and, 
though  extricated  from  the  water  himself,  it  was  only  to  perish  by 
the  sword  of  his  conqueror,  Giovanni  Contarini.  The  Venetian 
could  find  in  his  heart  no  mercy  for  the  Turk. 

The  fall  of  their  commander  gave  the  final  blow  to  his  followers. 
Without  further  attempt  to  prolong  the  fight,  they  fled  before  the 
avenging  swords  of  the  Venetians.  Those  nearest  the  land  endeav- 
ored to  escape  by  running  their  vessels  ashore,  where  they  aban- 
doned them  as  prizes  to  the  Christians.  Yet  many  of  the  fugitives, 
before  gaining  the  land,  perished  miserably  in  the  waves. 

Barbarigo,  the  Venetian  admiral,  who  was  still  lingering  in  agony, 
heard  the  tidings  of  the  enemy's  defeat,  and  uttering  a  few  words 
expressive  of  his  gratitude  to  Heaven,  which  had  permitted  him  to 
see  this  hour,  he  breathed  his  last 

During  this  time  the  combat  had  been  going  forward  in  the  centre 
between  the  two  commanders-in-chief,  Don  John  and  Ali  Pacha, 
whose  galleys  blazed  with  an  incessant  fire  of  artillery  and  musketry, 
that  enveloped  them  like  "  a  martyr's  robe  of  flames."  The  parties 
fought  with  equal  spirit,  though  not  with  equal  fortune. 

Twice  the  Spaniards  had  boarded  their  enemy,  and  both  times 
they  had  been  repulsed  with  loss.  Still  their  superiority  in  the  use 


WILLIAM    HICKLING    PRESCOTT.  183 

of  fire-arms  would  have  given  them  a  decided  advantage  over  their 
opponents,  if  the  loss  they  had  inflicted  had  not  been  speedily  re- 
paired by  fresh  re-enforcements.  More  than  once  the  contest  between 
the  two  chieftains  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  others  to  take 
part  in  the  fray.  They  soon,  however,  returned  to  each  other,  as  if 
unwilling  to  waste  their  strength  on  a  meaner  enemy.  Through  the 
whole  engagement,  both  commanders  exposed  themselves  to  danger 
as  freely  as  any  common  soldier.  In  such  a  contest  even  Philip 
must  have  admitted  that  it  would  be  difficult  for  his  brother  to  find, 
with  honor,  a  place  of  safety.  Don  John  received  a  wound  in  the 
foot.  It  was  a  slight  one,  however,  and  he  would  not  allow  it  to  be 
dressed  till  the  action  was  over. 

Again  his  men  were  mustered,  and  a  third  time  the  trumpets 
sounded  to  the  attack.  It  was  more  successful  than  the  preced- 
ing. The  Spaniards  threw  themselves  boldly  into  the  Turkish 
galley.  They  were  met  with  the  same  spirit  as  before  by  the 
janizaries.  Ali  Pacha  led  them  on.  Unfortunately,  at  this  moment 
he  was  struck  in  the  head  by  a  musket-ball,  and  stretched  sense- 
less in  the  gangway.  His  men  fought  worthily  of  their  ancient 
renown.  But  they  missed  the  accustomed  voice  of  their  com- 
mander. After  a  short  but  ineffectual  struggle  against  the  fiery 
impetuosity  of  the  Spaniards,  they  were  overpowered,  and  threw 
down  their  arms.  The  decks  were  loaded  with  the  bodies  of  the 
dead  and  the  dying.  Beneath  these  was  discovered  the  Turkish 
commander-in-chief,  severely  wounded,  but  perhaps  not  mortally. 
He  was  drawn  forth  by  some  Castilian  soldiers,  who,  recognizing 
his  person,  would  at  once  have  despatched  him.  But  the  disabled 
chief,  having  rallied  from  the  first  effects  of  his  wound,  had  sufficient 
presence  of  mind  to  divert  them  from  their  purpose,  by  pointing  out 
the  place  below  where  he  had  deposited  his  money  and  jewels  ; 
and  they  hastened  to  profit  by  the  disclosure  before  the  treasure 
should  fall  into  the  hands  of  their  commanders. 

Ali  was  not  so  successful  with  another  soldier,  who  came  up  soon 
after,  brandishing  his  sword,  and  preparing  to  plunge  it  into  the 
body  of  the  prostrate  commander.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  latter 
endeavored  to  turn  the  ruffian  from  his  purpose.  He  was  a  convict, 
one  of  those  galley-slaves  whom  Don  John  had  caused  to  be  un- 
chained from  the  oar  and  furnished  with  arms.  He  could  not  believe 
that  any  treasure  would  be  worth  so  much  as  the  head  of  the  pacha. 
Without  further  hesitation,  he  dealt  him  a  blow  which  severed  it 
from  his  shoulders ;  then,  returning  to  his  galley,  he  laid  the  bloody 


1 84       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

trophy  before  Don  John.  But  he  had  miscalculated  on  his  recom- 
pense. His  commander  gazed  on  it  with  a  look  of  pity  mingled 
with  horror.  He  may  have  thought  of  the  generous  conduct  of  Ali 
to  his  Christian  captives,  and  have  felt  that  he  deserved  a  better 
fate.  He  coldly  inquired  "  of  what  use  such  a  present  could  be  to 
him,"  and  then  ordered  it  to  be  thrown  into  the  sea.  Far  from  the 
order  being  obeyed,  it  is  said  the  head  was  stuck  on  a  pike  and 
raised  aloft  on  board  of  the  captured  galley.  At  the  same  time  the 
banner  of  the  Crescent  was  pulled  down,  while  that  of  the  Cross,  run 
up  in  its  place,  proclaimed  the  downfall  of  the  pacha. 

The  sight  of  the  sacred  ensign  was  welcomed  by  the  Christians 
with  a  shout  of  "  Victory  !  "  which  rose  high  above  the  din  of  battle. 
The  tidings  of  the  death  of  Ali  soon  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
giving  fresh  heart  to  the  confederates,  but  falling  like  a  knell  on  the 
ears  of  the  Moslems.  Their  confidence  was  gone  ;  their  fire  slack- 
ened ;  their  efforts  grew  weaker  and  weaker.  They  were  too  far 
from  shore  to  seek  an  asylum  there,  like  their  comrades  on  the  right. 
They  had  no  resource  but  to  prolong  the  combat  or  to  surrender. 
Most  preferred  the  latter.  Maiiy  vessels  were  carried  by  boarding ; 
others  were  sunk  by  the  victorious  Christians.  Ere  four  hours  had 
elapsed,  the  centre,  like  the  right  wing  of  the  Moslems,  might  be  said 
to  be  annihilated. 

Still  the  fight  was  lingering  on  the  right  of  the  confederates,  where, 
it  will  be  remembered,  Uluch  Ali,  the  Algerine  chief,  had  profited 
by  Doria's  error  in  extending  his  line  so  far  as  greatly  to  weaken  it. 
Uluch  Ali,  attacking  it  on  its  most  vulnerable  quarter,  had  suc- 
ceeded, as  we  have  seen,  in  capturing  and  destroying 'several  vessels, 
and  would  have  inflicted  still  heavier  losses  on  his  enemy,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  seasonable  succor  received  from  the  Marquis  of  Santa 
Cruz.  This  brave  officer,  who  commanded  the  reserve,  had  already 
been  of  much  service  to  Don  John  when  the  Real  was  assailed  by 
several  Turkish  galleys  at  once  during  his  combat  with  Ali  Pacha, 
for  at  this  juncture  the  Marquis  of  Santa  Cruz  arriving,  and  beating 
off  the  assailants,  one  of  whom  he  afterwards  captured,  enabled  the 
commander-in-chief  to  resume  his  engagement  with  the  pacha. 

No  sooner  did  Santa  Cruz  learn  the  critical  situation  of  Doria, 
than,  supported  by  Cardonna,  "  general "  of  the  Sicilian  squadron, 
he  pushed  forward  to  his  relief.  Dashing  into  the  midst  of  the  melee, 
the  two  commanders  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  on  the  Algerine  galleys. 
Few  attempted  to  withstand  the  shock.  But  in  their  haste  to  avoid 
it,  they  were  encountered  by  Doria  and  his  Genoese  galleys.  Thus 


WILLIAM    HICKLING   PRESCOTT.  185 

beset  on  all  sides,  Uluch  Ali  was  compelled  to  abandon  his  prizes, 
and  provide  for  his  own  safety  by  flight.  He  cut  adrift  the  Maltese 
Capitana,  which  he  had  lashed  to  his  stern,  and  on  which  three  hun- 
dred corpses  attested  the  desperate  character  of  her  defence.  As 
tidings  reached  him  of  the  discomfiture  of  the  centre  and  of  the  death 
of  Ali  Pacha,  he  felt  that  nothing  remained  but  to  make  the  best  of 
his  way  from  the  fatal  scene  of  action,  and  save  as  many  of  his  own 
ships  as  he  could.  And  there  were  no  ships  in  the  Turkish  fleet 
superior  to  his,  or  manned  by  men  under  more  perfect  discipline, 
for  they  were  the  famous  corsairs  of  the  Mediterranean,  who  had 
been  rocked  from  infancy  on  its  waters. 

Throwing  out  his  signals  for  retreat,  the  Algerine  was  soon  to  be 
seen,  at  the  head  of  his  squadron,  standing  towards  the  north,  under 
as  much  canvas  as  remained  to  him  after  the  battle,  and  urged  for- 
ward through  the  deep  by  the  whole  strength  of  his  oarsmen.  Doria 
and  Santa  Cruz  followed  quickly  in  his  wake.  But  he  was  borne  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind,  and  soon  distanced  his  pursuers.  Don  John, 
having  disposed  of  his  own  assailants,  was  coming  to  the  support 
of  Doria,  and  now  joined  in  the  pursuit  of  the  viceroy.  A  rocky 
headland,  stretching  far  into  the  sea,  lay  in  the  path  of  the  fugitive, 
and  his  enemies  hoped  to  intercept  him  there.  Some  few  of  his  ves- 
sels were  stranded  on  the  rocks.  But  the  rest,  near  forty  in  num- 
ber, standing  more  boldly  out  to  sea,  safely  doubled  the  promontory. 
Then,  quickening  their  flight,  they  gradually  faded  from  the  horizon, 
their  white  sails,  the  last  thing  visible,  showing  in  the  distance  like  a 
flock  of  Arctic  sea-fowl  on  their  way  to  their  native  homes.  .  .  . 

It  was,  indeed,  a  sanguinary  battle,  surpassing,  in  this  particular, 
any  sea  fight  of  modern  times.  The  loss  fell  much  the  most  heavily 
on  the  Turks.  There  is  the  usual  discrepancy  about  numbers,  but 
it  may  be  safe  to  estimate  their  loss  at  nearly  twenty-five  thousand 
slain  and  five  thousand  prisoners.  What  brought  most  pleasure  to 
the  hearts  of  the  conquerors  was  the  liberation  of  twelve  thousand 
Christian  captives,  who  had  been  chained  to  the  oar  on  board  the 
Moslem  galleys,  and  who  now  came  forth,  with  tears  of  joy  stream- 
ing down  their  haggard  cheeks,  to  bless  their  deliverers. 

The  loss  of  the  allies  was  comparatively  small  —  less  than  eight 
thousand.  That  it  was  so  much  smaller  than  that  of  their  enemies, 
may  be  referred  in  part  to  their  superiority  in  the  use  of  fire-arms  ; 
in  part  also  to  their  exclusive  use  of  these  instead  of  employing  bows 
and  arrows,  weapons  on  which,  though  much  less  effective,  the 
Turks,  like  the  other  Moslem  nations,  seemed  to  have  greatly  relied. 


1 86       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Lastly,  the  Turks  were  the  vanquished  party,  and  in  their  heavier 
losses  suffered  the  almost  invariable  lot  of  the  vanquished. 

As  to  their  armada,  it  may  almost  be  said  to  have  been  annihilated. 
Not  more  than  forty  galleys  escaped  out  of  near  two  hundred  and 
fifty  which  entered  the  action.  One  hundred  and  thirty  were  taken 
and  divided  among  the  conquerors.  The  remainder,  sunk  or  burned, 
were  swallowed  up  by  the  waves.  To  counterbalance  all  this,  the 
confederates  are  said  to  have  lost  not  more  than  fifteen  galleys, 
though  a  much  larger  number,  doubtless,  were  rendered  unfit  for 
service.  This  disparity  affords  good  evidence  of  the  inferiority  of 
the  Turks  in  the  construction  of  their  vessels,  as  well  as  in  the  nau- 
tical skill  required  to  manage  them.  A  great  amount  of  booty,  in 
the  form  of  gold,  jewels,  and  brocade,  was  found  on  board  several 
of  the  prizes.  The  galley  of  the  commander-in-chief  alone  is  stated 
to  have  contained  one  hundred  and  seventy  thousand  gold  sequins 
—  a  large  sum,  but  not  large  enough,  it  seems,  to  buy  off  his 
life.  .  .  . 

Another  youth  was  in  that  fight  who,  then  humble  and  unknown, 
was  destined  one  day  to  win  laurels  of  a  purer  and  more  enviable 
kind  than  those  which  grow  on  the  battle-field.  This  was  Cer- 
vantes, who,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  was  serving  on  board  the 
fleet  as  a  common  soldier.  He  had  been  confined  to  his  bed  by  a 
fever,  but,  notwithstanding  the  remonstrances  of  his  captain,  he  in- 
sisted, on  the  morning  of  the  action,  not  only  on  bearing  arms,  but 
on  being  stationed  in  the  post  of  danger.  And  well  did  he  perform 
his  duty  there,  as  was  shown  by  two  wounds  on  the  breast,  and  by 
another  in  the  hand,  by  which  he  lost  the  use  of'  it.  Fortunately 
it  was  the  left  hand.  The  right  yet  remained  to  indite  those  immor- 
tal productions,  which  were  to  be  known  as  household  words,  not 
only  in  his  own  land,  but  in  every  quarter  of  the  civilized  world. 


FRANCIS   WAYLAND. 

Francis  Wayland  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  March  n,  1796.  He  received  his 
education  at  Union  College,  and  gave  three  years  to  the  study  of  medicine,  in  Troy,  N.  Y., 
but,  having  joined  the  Baptist  church,  he  changed  his  original  intention,  and  entered  An- 
dover  Theological  Seminary.  He  was  tutor  four  years  at  Union  College,  and  was  afterwards 
settled  in  Boston  as  pastor  of  the  First  Baptist  Church,  where  he  remained  five  years.  He 
was  a  professor  at  Union  College  for  a  few  months,  and  was  then  (1827)  chosen  president  of 
Brown  University,  at  Providence,  R.  I.  His  great  practical  talents,  no  less  than  his  high 
qualities  of  intellect  and  commanding  personal  influence,  were  soon  felt  in  the  prosperity  and 


FRANCIS    WAYLAND.  l8/ 

advanced  standing  of  the  institution.  He  brought  about  a  change  in  the  collegiate  instruc- 
tion, by  which  special  courses  were  open  to  students,  with  corresponding  degrees  for  profi- 
ciency. He  resigned  his  office  in  1855,  and  died  at  Providence,  September  30,  1865. 

Dr.  Wayland  was  a  man  of  remarkable  power  and  originality  of  thought,  and  his  tastes 
and  studies  inclined  him  to  the  pursuit  of  fundamental  truths.  His  style  was  a  reflex  of  his 
mental  traits,  clear,  cogent,  and  direct.  His  greatest  work  was  his  Elements  of  Moral 
Science,  which  has  long  been  a  standard  text  book.  He  also  wrote  the  Elements  of  Politi- 
cal Economy,  a  Treatise  on  Intellectual  Philosophy,  Limitations  of  Human  Responsibility, 
a  Life  of  Adoniram  Judson,  the  missionary,  Thoughts  on  the  Collegiate  System  of  the 
United  States,  besides  several  volumes  of  sermons.  His  sermon  on  the  Moral  Dignity  of 
the  Missionary  Enterprise  is  a  powerful  production,  noble  in  its  leading  motive,  and  rising 
into  passages  of  true  eloquence. 

Dr.  Wayland  was  tall  in  stature,  with  a  dignified  presence,  a  massive,  overhanging  brow, 
and  deep  set  eyes.  His  manners  were  simple  and  affable,  though  habitually  grave. 

[From  a  Sermon  on  the  Duties  of  an  American  Citizen.] 
THE   BIBLE  AND   THE   ILIAD. 

OF  all  the  books  with  which,  since  the  invention  of  writing,  this 
world  has  been  deluged,  the  number  of  those  is  very  small  which 
have  produced  any  perceptible  effect  on  the  mass  of  human  char- 
acter. By  far  the  greater  part  have  been,  even  by  their  contem- 
poraries, unnoticed  and  unknown.  Not  many  a  one  has  made  its 
little  mark  upon  the  generation  that  produced  it,  though  it  sunk 
with  that  generation  to  utter  forgetfulness.  But,  after  the  cease- 
less toil  of  six  thousand  years,  how  few  have  been  the  works,  the 
adamantine  basis  of  whose  reputation  has  stood  unhurt  among  the 
fluctuations  of  time,  and  whose  impression  can  be  traced  through 
successive  centuries,  on  the  history  of  our  species  ! 

When,  however,  such  a  work  appears,  its  effects  are  absolutely 
incalculable  ;  and  such  a  work,  you  are  aware,  is  the  Iliad  of  Homer. 
Who  can  estimate  the  results  produced  by  the  incomparable  efforts 
of  a  single  mind  ?  who  can  tell  what  Greece  owes  to  this  first-born 
of  song  ?  Her  breathing  marbles,  her  solemn  temples,  her  unri- 
valled eloquence,  and  her  matchless  verse,  all  point  us  to  that 
transcendent  genius,  who,  by  the  very  splendor  of  his  own  efful- 
gence, woke  the  human  intellect  from  the  slumber  of  ages.  It  was 
Homer  who  gave  laws  to  the  artist ;  it  was  Homer  who  inspired 
the  poet ;  it  was  Homer  who  thundered  in  the  senate ;  and,  more 
than  all,  it  was  Homer  who  was  sung  by  the  people ;  and  hence 
a  nation  was  cast  into  the  mould  of  one  mighty  mind,  and  the  land 
of  the  Iliad  became  the  region  of  taste,  the  birthplace  of  the  arts. 

Nor  was  this  influence  confined  within  the  limits  of  Greece. 
Long  after  the  sceptre  of  empire  had  passed  westward,  genius  still 
held  her  court  on  the  banks  of  the  Ilyssus,  and  from  the  country 


1 88       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

of  Homer  gave  laws  to  the  world.  The  light,  which  the  blind  old 
man  of  Scio  had  kindled  in  Greece,  shed  its  radiance  over  Italy  ; 
and  thus  did  he  awaken  a  second  nation  into  intellectual  existence. 
And  we  may  form  some  idea  of  the  power  which  this  one  work  has 
to  the  present  day  exerted  over  the  mind  of  man,  by  remarking,  that 
"  nation  after  nation,  and  century  after  century,  has  been  able  to 
do  little  more  than  transpose  his  incidents,  new  name  his  charac- 
ters, and  paraphrase  his -sentiments." 

But,  considered  simply  as  an  intellectual  production,  who  will 
compare  the  poems  of  Homer  with  the  Holy  Scriptures  of  the  Old 
and  New  Testament  ?  Where  in  the  Iliad  shall  we  find  simplicity 
and  pathos  which  shall  vie  with  the  narrative  of  Moses,  or  maxims 
of  conduct  to  equal  in  wisdom  the  Proverbs  of  Solomon,  or  sub- 
limity which  does  not  fade  away  before  the  conceptions  of  Job  or 
David,  of  Isaiah  or  St.  John  ?  But  I  cannot  pursue  this  compar- 
ison. I  feel  that  it  is  doing  wrong  to  the  mind  which  dictated  the 
Iliad,  and  to  those  other  mighty  intellects  on  whom  the  light  of  the 
holy  oracles  never  shined.  Who  that  has  read  his  poem  has  not 
observed  how  he  strove  in  vain  to  give  dignity  to  the  mythology  of 
his  time  ?  Who  has  not  seen  how  the  religion  of  his  country,  una- 
ble to  support  the  flight  of  his  imagination,  sunk  powerless  beneath 
him  ?  It  is  the  unseen  world,  where  the  master  spirits  of  our  race 
breathe  freely,  and  are  at  home  ;  and  it  is  mournful  to  behold  the 
intellect  of  Homer  striving  to  free  itself  from  the  conceptions  of 
materialism,  and  then  sinking  down  in  hopeless  despair,  to  weave 
idle  tales  about  Jupiter  and  Juno,  Apollo  and  Diana.  But  the  diffi- 
culties under  which  he  labored  are  abundantly  illustrated  by  the 
fact  that  the  light  which  poured  upon  the  human  intellect  taught 
other  ages  how  unworthy  was  the  religion  of  his  day,  of  the  man 
who  was  compelled  to  use  it.  "  It  seems  to  me,"  says  Longinus, 
"  that  Homer,  when  he  describes  dissensions,  jealousies,  tears,  im- 
prisonments, and  other  afflictions  to  his  deities,  hath,  as  much  as  was 
in  his  power,  made  the  men  of  the  Iliad  gods,  and  the  gods  men. 
To  men,  when  afflicted,  death  is  the  termination  of  evils ;  but  he 
hath  made  not  only  the  nature,  but  the  miseries,  of  the  gods 
eternal." 

If,  then,  so  great  results  have  flowed  from  this  one  effort  of  a  sin- 
gle mind,  what  may  we  not  expect  from  the  combined  efforts  of 
several,  at  least  his  equals  in  power,  over  the  human  heart  ?  If  that 
one  genius,  though  groping  in  the  thick  darkness  of  absurd  idolatry, 
wrought  so  glorious  a  transformation  in  the  character  of  his  coun- 


HUGH    SWINTON   LEGARE.  1 89 

trymen,  what  may  we  not  look  for  from  the  universal  dissemination 
of  those  writings,  on  whose  authors  was  poured  the  full  splendor  of 
eternal  truth  ?  If  unassisted  human  nature,  spell-bound  by  a  child- 
ish mythology,  have  done  so  much,  what  may  we  not  hope  for  from 
the  supernatural  efforts  of  pre-eminent  genius,  which  spake  as  it 
was  moved  by  the  Holy  Ghost  ? 


HUGH   SWINTON   LEGARE. 

Hugh  Swinton  Legare  (pronounced  Legree)  was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C,  January  2, 
1797,  and  was  graduated  at  South  Carolina  College,  Columbia.  He  commenced  his  legal 
studies  in  Charleston,  and  in  1818  went  to  Europe  to  complete  his  education  in  the  history 
and  philosophy  of  law.  He  returned  to  his  native  city  with  a  high  reputation  for  scholar- 
ship, both  in  ancient  and  modern  literature,  and  soon  entered  into  public  life.  He  was  a 
member  of  the  state  legislature  for  several  years,  until  in  1830  he  was  made  attorney  general 
of  the  state.  In  1833  he  was  appointed  charge  d1  affaires  at  Brussels,  where  he  remained 
three  years.  On  his  return  he  was  elected  a  member  of  Congress,  and  upon  the  accession 
of  President  Tyler,  in  1841,  was  appointed  attorney  general  of  the  United  States.  He 
accompanied  the  president  to  Boston  on  the  occasion  of  the  completion  of  Bunker  Hill 
monument,  and,  being  seized  with  a  sudden  illness,  died  June  20,  1844,  at  the  house  of  his 
friend  and  classmate,  the  late  George  Ticknor. 

The  writings  of  Mr.  Legare  consist  of  notes  from  his  journal,  a  few  speeches,  and  articles 
written  for  the  Southern  Quarterly  Review,  and  were  published  in  1846,  in  two  volumes,  8vo., 
with  a  memoir.  The  biographer  was  more  enthusiastic  than  judicious.  The  learning  of 
Mr.  Legare  was  unusual  for  a  lawyer  and  politician,  but  it  had  not  borne  much  fruit.  His 
essays  are  thoughtful  and  interesting,  but  have  no  special  brilliancy  of  style,  and  lack  fire  as 
well  as  imaginative  power. 

[From  an  Article  on  Sir  Philip  Sydney.] 
INFLUENCE  OF  PURITANISM   ON  LITERATURE. 

WITH  the  exception  of  Surrey,  Wyatt,  and  Sackville,  — meritorious, 
but  still  inferior  poets,  —  two  centuries  had  passed  away  without  pro- 
ducing a  single  name  worthy  to  be  had  in  remembrance  by  posterity. 
Chaucer  and  Gower,  as  we  observed  on  a  former  occasion,  had 
hitherto  found  as  few  successors  as  Dante  and  Petrarch ;  while,  in 
both  countries,  the  national  literature,  after  this  period  of  darkness, 
"  burst  forth  with  sudden  blaze  "  about  the  same  time,  or  at  no  great 
interval.  It  is  not  improbable  that  this  coincidence  in  so  striking  a 
state  of  facts  was  produced  by  some  general  cause  —  at  least,  by 
some  cause  common  both  to  Italy  and  England.  But  however  that 
may  be,  the  revival  of  poetry  had  to  encounter  in  the  latter  an 
obstacle  altogether  unknown  in  the  former  country.  This  was  the 
rigorous,  self-mortifying  fanaticism  of  the  Puritans.  We  do  not 
mean  to  derogate  from  the  merit  of  the  sect,  whose  stern  discipline, 


I9O       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

« 
like  that  of  their  archetypes  in  heathen  antiquity,  the  Stoics,  was  so 

admirably  fitted  for  a  period  of  trial  and  fiery  persecution,  and  taught 
so  many  patriots  and  heroes  to  think,  to  act,  and  to  die,  as  becomes 
men  devoted  to  duty  and  to  liberty.  We  are  too  well  aware  what 
the  world  —  what  we  in  particular,  owe  to  the  Long  Parliament,  and 
who  they  were  that  most  zealously  promoted  the  reforms  which  it 
made  in  the  constitutional  law  of  England.  .  .  . 

But  highly  as  we  appreciate  the  political  services  of  these  great 
men,  we  must  be  allowed  to  dissent  from  some  of.  their  views  of 
human  nature.  Their  imaginations  were  so  strongly  possessed  with 
what  they  considered  as  the  abominations  of  idolatry  in  those  "gay 
religions  full  of  pomp  and  gold,"  from  which  they  were  desirous  of 
purging  England,  that  they  could  tolerate  in  the  church  nothing  but 
the  most  absolute  simplicity  of  forms,  and  the  severest  spirituality 
in  worship.  The  same  modes  of  thought  were  naturally  extended 
to  other  subjects.  In  this  vale  of  tears,  how  absurd,  how  criminal 
was  it  to  be  gay !  How  could  a  being,  accountable  for  every  idle 
thought,  indulge  his  fancy,  with  impunity,  in  vain  and  chimerical 
figments,  in  foolish  dreams  of  what  he  never  could  expect,  or  should 
never  wish  to  see  realized  !  .  .  . 

Our  answer  to  the  dogmas  of  this  school  is  the  same  that  was 
made  to  the  Stoics  two  thousand  years  ago.  They  aim  at  a  degree 
of  perfection  —  if  apathy  is  perfection  —  quite  inconsistent  with  the 
nature  of  man  and  his  relation  to  the  world  about  him.  They  treat 
him  as  if  he  were  n.Q-body,  but  all  understanding  —  a  mere  mathe- 
matical machine,  whose  only  object  is  to  know,  whose  only  business 
is  to  reason,  and  whose  whole  conduct  in  life  is  to  be  a  sort  of  practi- 
cal demonstration.  All  instructive  impulse,  however  generous  ;  all 
uncalculating  affection,  however  sweet  and  consoling ;  all  feeling,  in 
short,  —  unguarded,  natural  feeling,  —  is  unworthy  of  a  rational  being, 
much  more  of  a  supremely  wise  man.  According  to  this  theory, 
taste,  and  the  sense  of  beauty  and  of  melody,  were  given  us  in  vain. 
Imagination  is  no  part  of  our  original  nature,  but  a  consequence, 
rather,  and  proof  of  its  corruption.  Nature  is  lovely  in  vain.  Nay,  it  is 
worse  than  in  vain  that  she  has  poured  her  bounties  forth  with  such 
a  lavish  hand,  and  covered  the  earth  with  odors,  fruits,  and  flowers,  — 
with  so  many  sources  of  enjoyment  —  with  so  many  scenes  of 
magnificence  and  attraction,  —  ail  but  to  delude,  to  insnare,  and  to 
destroy  us  !  Everything  about  us,  and  within  us,  and  above  us,  is 
full  of  poetry, — for  everything  is  full  of  sublimity  and  beauty, — 
everything  is  calculated  to  inspire  admiration  or  awaken  love  in 


WILLIAM    WARE.  IQI 

rational  creatures,  and  in  them  alone.  Yet,  to  enjoy  the  very  pleas- 
ures, to  cultivate  the  very  perceptions  and  faculties  that  most  dis- 
tinguish them  from  the  brutes  that  perish,  is  folly,  or  worse,  in  the 
opinions  of  those  who  talk,  in  the  loftiest  strain,  of  the  privileges 
and  pre-eminence  of  human  reason.  .  .  . 

True  poetry,  like  true  eloquence,  is  the  voice  of  nature  appeal- 
ing to  the  heart  with  its  utmost  sublimity  and  power.  Its  precepts 
differ  from  those  of  philosophy  only  in  their  effect.  Instead  of 
teaching  merely,  it  persuades,  elevates,  inspires.  It  excites  a  feel- 
ing where  the  other  leaves  only  an  opinion  or  a  maxim.  It  proposes 
examples  of  ideal  excellence,  and  raises  virtue  into  heroism. 


WILLIAM   WARE. 

William  Ware  was  born  in  Hingham,  Mass.,  August  3,  1797,  and  was  graduated  at  Har- 
vard College  in  1816.  He  entered  the  ministry,  and  preached  in  New  York  for  sixteen  years. 
He  is  the  author  of  three  historical  romances  that  have  gained  for  him  a  permanent  reputa- 
tion. The  first  (published  in  1836)  is  Zenobia,  or  the  Fall  of  Palmyra,  a  series  of  letters 
purporting  to  be  written  by  a  Roman,  in  which  the  splendors  of  the  desert  city,  and  its  final 
overthrow  by  the  Emperor  Aurelian,  are  described.  The  work  shows  an  intimate  acquaint- 
ance not  only  with  the  history,  but  with  the  private  life  and  manners  of  the  age,  and  its  style 
is  vivid  and  picturesque.  The  second  (1838)  is  entitled  Probus,  and  is  a  sequel  of  the  nar- 
rative of  Zenobia.  The  third  (1841)  is  Juiian,  a  picture  of  the  scenes  and  events  in  Judea 
during  the  latter  years  of  Jesus  Christ.  Zenobia  is  the  most  brilliant  of  the  series,  but  all 
possess  a  high  order  of  merit. 

Mr.  Ware  was  afterwards  settled  over  a  church  in  West  Cambridge,  but  resigned  on 
account  of  ill  health  in  1845.  He  died  at  Cambridge,  February  19,  1852. 

[From  Zenobia.  ] 
THE  APPROACH   TO  PALMYRA. 

UPON  this  boundless  desert,  which  stretches  from  the  Anti- 
Libanus  almost  to  the  very  walls  of  Palmyra,  we  now  soon  entered. 
The  scene  which  it  presented  was  more  dismal  than  I  can  describe. 
A  red  moving  sand,  —  or  hard  and  baked  by  the  heat  of  a  sun  such 
as  Rome  never  knows,  —  low  gray  rocks  just  rising  here  and  there 
above  the  level  of  the  plain,  with  now  and  then  the  dead  and  glitter- 
ing trunk  of  a  vast  cedar,  whose  roots  seemed  as  if  they  had  out- 
lasted centuries  ;  the  bones  of  camels  and  elephants,  scattered  on 
either  hand,  dazzling  the  sight  by  reason  of  their  excessive  whiteness  ; 
at  a  distance,  occasionally  an  Arab  of  the  desert,  for  a  moment 
surveying  our  long  line,  and  then  darting  off  to  his  fastnesses  — 
these  were  the  objects  which,  with  scarce  any  variation,  met  our 


I Q2  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

eyes  during  the  four  wearisome  days  that  we  dragged  ourselves  over 
this  wild  and  inhospitable  region.  A  little  after  the  noon  of  the 
fourth  day,  as  we  started  on  our  way,  having  refreshed  ourselves 
and  our  exhausted  animals  at  a  spring  which  here  poured  out  its 
warm  but  still  grateful  waters  to  the  traveller,  my  ears  received  the 
agreeable  news  that  towards  the  east  there  could  now  be  discerned 
the  dark  line,  which  indicated  our  approach  to  the  verdant  tract  that 
encompasses  the  great  city.  Our  own  excited  spirits  were  quickly 
imparted  to  our  beasts,  and  a  more  rapid  movement  soon  revealed 
into  distinctness  the  high  land  and  waving  groves  of  palm  trees 
which  mark  the  site  of  Palmyra. 

It  was  several  miles  before  we  reached  the  city,  that  we  suddenly 
found  ourselves,  — landing,  as  it  were,  from  a  sea  upon  an  island  or 
continent  —  in  a  rich  and  thickly  peopled  country.  The  roads 
indicated  an  approach  to  a  great  capital,  in  the  increasing  numbers 
of  those  who  thronged  them,  meeting  and  passing  us,  overtaking  us, 
or  crossing  our  way.  Elephants,  camels,  and  the  dromedary,  which 
I  had  before  seen  only' in  the  amphitheatres,  I  here  beheld  as  the 
native  inhabitants  of  the  soil. 

Frequent  villas  of  the  rich  and  luxurious  Palmyrenes,  to  which 
they  retreat  from  the  greater  heats  of  the  city,  now  threw  a  lovely 
charm  over  the  scene.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  splendor  of  these 
sumptuous  palaces.  Italy  itself  has  nothing  which  surpasses  them. 

The  new  and  brilliant  costumes  of  the  persons  whom  we  met, 
together  with  the  rich  housings  or  the  animals  they  rode,  served 
greatly  to  add  to  all  this  beauty.  I  was  still  entranced,  as  it  were, 
by  the  objects  around  me,  and  buried  in  reflection,  when  I  was 
roused  by  the  shout  of  those  who  led  the  caravan,  and  who  had 
attained  the  summit  of  a  little  rising  ground,  saying,  "  Palmyra ! 
Palmyra  !  " 

I  urged  forward  my  steed,  and  in  a  moment  the  most  wonderful 
prospect  I  ever  beheld  —  no,  I  cannot  except  even  Rome  —  burst 
upon  my  sight.  Flanked  by  hills  of  considerable  elevation  on  the 
east,  the  city  filled  the  whole  plain  below  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  both  towards  the  north  and  towards  the  south.  This  im- 
mense plain  was  all  one  vast  and, boundless  city.  It  seemed  to  me 
to  be  larger  than  Rome.  Yet  I  knew  very  well  that  it  could  not  be 
—  that  it  was  not.  And  it  was  some  time  before  I  understood  the 
true  character  of  the  scene  before  me,  so  as  to  separate  the  city 
from  the  country,  and  the  country  from  the  city,  which  here  wonder- 
fully interpenetrate  each  other ;  and  so  confound  and  deceive  the 


WILLIAM    WARE.  193 

observer.  For  the  city  proper  is  so  studded  with  groups  of  lofty 
palm  trees,  shooting  up  among  its  temples  and  palaces,  and  on  the 
other  hand,  the  plain  in  its  immediate  vicinity  is  so  thickly  adorned 
with  magnificent  structures  of  the  purest  marble,  that  it  is  not  easy, 
nay,  it  is  impossible  at  the  distance  at  which  I  contemplated  the  whole, 
to  distinguish  the  line  which  divided  the  one  from  the  other.  It  was 
all  city  and  all  country,  all  country  and  all  city.  Those  which  lay 
before  me  I  was  ready  to  believe  were  the  Elysian  Fields.  I 
imagined  that  I  saw  under  my  feet  the  dwellings  of  purified  men 
__ajid.  of  gods..  Certainly  they  were  too  glorious  for  the  mere  earth- 
born.  There  was  a  central  point,  however,  which  chiefly  fixed  my 
attention,  where  the  vast  Temple  of  the  Sun  stretched  upwards  its 
thousand  columns  of  polished  marble  to  the  heavens,  in  its  match- 
less beauty  casting  into  the  shade  every  other  work  of  art  of  which 
the  world  can  boast.  I  have  stood  before  the  Parthenon,  and  have 
almost  worshipped  that  divine  achievement  of  the  immortal  Phidias. 
But  it  is  a  toy  by  the  side  of  this  bright  crown  of  the  eastern  capital. 
I  have  been  at  Milan,  at  Ephesus,  at  Alexandria,  at  Antioch  ;  but  in 
neither  of  those  renowned  cities  have  I  beheld  anything  that  I  can 
allow  to  approach  in  united  extent,  grandeur,  and  most  consummate 
beauty,  this  almost  more  than  work  of  man.  On  each  side  of  this, 
the  central  point,  there  rose  upward  slender  pyramids,  —  pointed 
obelisks,  —  domes  of  the  most  graceful  proportions,  columns,  arches, 
and  lofty  towers,  for  number  and  for  form  beyond  my  power  to  describe. 
These  buildings,  as  well  as  the  walls  of  the  city,  being  all  either  of 
white  marble,  or  of  some  stone  as  white,  and  being  everywhere  in 
their  whole  extent  interspersed,  as  I  have  already  said,  with  multi- 
tudes of  overshadowing  palm  trees,  perfectly  filled  and  satisfied  my 
sense  of  beauty,  and  made  me  feel  for  the  moment  as  if  in  such  a 
scene  I  should  love  to  dwell,  and  there  end  my  days.  Nor  was  I 
alone  in  these  transports  of  delight.  All  my  fellow-travellers  seemed 
equally  affected  ;  and  from  the  native  Palmyrenes,  of  whom  there 
were  many  among  us,  the  most  impassioned  and  boastful  exclama- 
tions broke  forth.  "  What  is  Rome  to  this  ?  "  they  cried.  "  Fortune 
is  not  constant.  Why  may  not  Palmyra  be  what  Rome  has  been  — 
mistress  of  the  world  ?  Who  more  fit  to  rule  than  the  great  Zenobia  ? 
A  few  years  may  see  great  changes.  Who  can  tell  what  shall  come 
to  pass  ?  "  These,  and  many  such  sayings,  were  uttered  by  those 
around  me,  accompanied  by  many  significant  gestures  and  glances 
of  the  eye.  I  thought  of  them  afterwards.  We  now  descended  the 
hill,  and  the  long  line  of  our  caravan  moved  on  towards  the  city. 

13 


194  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


A  BREAKFAST-ROOM. 

I  WAS  shown  to  a  different  apartment  from  that  in  which  we  had 
supped,  but  opening  into  it.  It  was  a  portico  rather  than  a  room, 
being  on  two  sides  open  to  the  shrubbery,  with  slender  Ionic  pillars 
of  marble  supporting  the  ceiling,  all  joined  together  by  the  light 
interlacings  of  the  most  gorgeous  creeping  plants.  Their  odors 
filled  the  air.  A  fountain  threw  up,  in  the  most  graceful  forms,  its 
clear  water,  and  spread  all  around  an  agreeable  coolness.  Standing 
at  those  points  where  flights  of  steps  led  down  to  the  walks  and 
plats  of  grass  and  flowers,  which  wound  about  the  palace,  the  eye 
wandered'pver  the  rich  scene  of  verdure  and  blossom  which  they 
presented,  and  then  rested  where  it  can  never  rest  too  often  or  too 
long —  upon  the  glittering  shafts  of  the  Temple  of  the  Sun.  This 
morning  prospect,  from  the  single  point,  I  thought  was  reward 
enough  for  my  long  voyage  and  hot  journey  over  the  desert. 


THE  STREETS. 

THE  streets,  seen  now  under  the  advantages  of  a  warm  morning 
sun,  adding  a  beauty  of  its  own  to  whatever  it  glanced  upon,  showed 
much  more  brilliantly  than  ours  of  Rome. 

There  is,  in  tlie  first  place,  a  more  general  sumptuousness  in 
equipage  and  ctress,  very  striking  to  the  eye  of  a  Roman.  Not,  per- 
haps, that  more  wealth  is  displayed,  but  the  forms  and  the  colors 
through  which  it  displays  itself  are  more  various,  more  tasteful, 
more  gorgeous.  Nothing  can  exceed,  nothing  equals,  it  is  said,  any- 
wjiere  in  the  world/ the  state  of  the  queen  and  her  court ;  and  this 
infects,  if  I  may  use  so  harsh  a  word,  the  whole  city.  So  that, 
though  with  far  less  of  real  substantial  riches  than  we  have,  their 
extravagance  and  luxury  are  equal,  and  their  taste  far  before  us. 
Then  everything  wears  a  newer,  fresher  ,look\  than  in  Rome.  The 
buildings  of  the  republic,  which  many  are  so  desirous  to  preserve, 
and  whole  streets  even  of  ante-Augustan  architecture,  tend  to  spread 
around  here  and  there  in  Rome  a  gloom,  to  me  full  of  beauty  and 
poetry,  but  still  gloom.  Here  all  is  bright  and  gay.  The  build- 
ings of  marble  ;  the  streets  paved  and  clean  ;  frequent  fountains 
of  water  throwing  up  their  foaming  jets,  and  shedding  around  a 
delicious  coolness  ;  temples,  and  palaces  of  the  nobles,  or  of 
wealthy  Palmyrene  merchants,  —  altogether  present  a  more  brilliant 


WILLIAM    WARE.  1 95 

assemblage  of  objects  than  I  suppose  any  other  city  can  boast. 
Then  conceive,  poured  through  these  long  lines  of  beautiful  edifices, 
among  these  temples  and  fountains,  a  population  drawn  from  every 
country  of  the  far  East,  arrayed  in  every  variety  of  the  most  showy 
and  fanciful  costume,  with  the  singular  animals,  rarely  seen  in  our 
streets,  but  here  met  at  every  turn  —  elephants,  camels,  and  drome- 
daries, to  say  nothing  of  the  Arabian  horses,  with  their  jewelled 
housings,  with  every  now  and  then  a  troop  of  the  queen's  cavalry, 
moving  along  to  the  sound  of  their  clanging  trumpets  —  conceive,  I 
say,  this  ceaseless  tide  of  various  animal  life  poured  along  among 
the  proud  piles,  and  choking  the  ways,  and  you  will  have  some  faint 
glimpse  of  the  strange  and  imposing  reality.  l£ 


THE  QUEEN. 

WE  had  been  here  not  many  minutes,  before  the  shouts  of  the 
people,  and  the  braying  of  martial  music,  and  the  confused  sound  of 
an  approaching  multitude,  showed  that  the  queen  was  near.  Troops 
of  horse,  variously  caparisoned,  each  more  brilliantly  as  it  seemed 
than  another,  preceded  a  train  of  sumptuary  elephants  and  camels, 
these,  too,  richly  dressed,  but  heavily  loaded.  Then  came  the  body- 
guard of  the  queen,  in  armor  of  complete  steel ;  and  then  the 
chariot  of  Zenobia,  drawn  by  milk-white  Arabians.  So  soon  as  she 
appeared,  the  air  resounded  with  the  acclamations  of  the  countless 
multitudes.  Every  cry  of  loyalty  and  affection  was  heard  from  ten 
thousand  mouths,  making  a  music  such  as  filled  the  heart  almost 
to  breaking. 

It  was  to  me  a  moment  inexpressibly  interesting.  I  could  not 
have  asked  for  more,  than  for  the  first  time  to  see  this  great  woman 
just  as  I  now  saw  her.  I  cannot,  at  this  time,  even  speak  of  her 
beauty,  and  the  imposing,  yet  sweet  dignity  of  her  manner ;  for  it 
was  with  me,  as  I  suppose  it  was  with  all  —  the  diviner  beauty  of 
the  emotions  and  sentiments  which  were  working  at  her  heart  and 
shone  out  in  the  expressive  language  of  her  countenance,  took  away 
all  power  of  narrowly  scanning  complexion,  feature,  and  form.  Her 
look  was  full  of  love  for  her  people.  She  regarded  them  as  if  they 
were  her  children.  She  bent  herself  fondly  towards  them,  as  if 
nothing  but  the  restraints  of  form  withheld  her  from  throwing  her- 
self into  their  arms.  This  was  the  beauty  which  filled  and  agitated 
.me.  I  was  more  than  satisfied. 


196  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


RUFUS   CHOATE. 

Rufus  Choate  was  born  in  Essex,  Mass.,  October  i,  1799.  He  received  his  education  at 
Dartmouth  College,  and  was  graduated  with  the  highest  honors  of  his  class  in  1819.  After 
a  year's  service  as  tutor  he  commenced  the  study  of  law,  and  was  for  a  year  in  the  office  of 
William  Wirt.  at  Washington.  He  was  admitted  to  the  Essex  County  bar  in  1824,  and 
practised  at  Danvers,  and  soon  after  at  Salem.  His  eminent  abilities,  conscientious  indus- 
try and  zeal  soon  brought  him  into  notice.  He  was  elected  a  member  of  Congress  in  1832, 
but  after  one  term  of  service  he  declined  a  re-election,  and  removed  to  Boston,  as  a  more  invit- 
ing field  for  professional  distinction.  In  1841  he  was  chosen  to  succeed  Daniel  Webster  in  the 
United  States  Senate,  and  at  the  close  of  his  term  returned  to  the  bar.  After  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  whig  party,  although  he  had  been  decidedly  opposed  to  slavery,  he  supported 
Mr.  Buchanan  and  the  democrats,  alleging  that  the  triumph  of  the  new  republican  party 
would  lead  to  a  dissolution  of  the  Union.  But  he  took  no  further  active  part  in  politics. 
In  1859,  being  in  failing  health,  he  undertook  a  voyage  to  Europe,  but  by  the  advice  of  the 
surgeon  he  left  the  ship  at  Halifax,  and  died  there,  July  13. 

Mr.  Choate  was  a  man  of  brilliant  intellect,  strong  in  reason  no  less  than  in  imagination,  a 
scholar  by  instinct  and  by  habit,  a  master  of  all  the  arts  of  oratorical  fence,  full  of  playful 
repartee  and  of  unexpected,  dazzling  wit,  and  possessing  a  power  over  audiences  never  sur- 
passed, if  equalled,  in  this  country.  His  efforts  at  the  bar  were  wholly  extemporaneous  ;  his 
look  of  flashing  intelligence,  his  melodious  sentences,  rich  in  learned  allusions,  and  his  won- 
derful voice,  that  persuaded  and  commanded  by  turns,  will  be  only  matters  of  tradition. 
Fortunately  a  few  of  his  orations  and  discourses  have  been  preserved,  and  from  them  posterity 
will  gather  some  hints  of  the  fascination  which  this  extraordinary  man  exerted.  His  mind 
was  so  full,  his  fancy  so  exuberant,  his  choice  of  words  so  adjusted  to  the  subtilest  shades  of 
meaning,  that  he  gave  a  splendor  to  the  commonest  themes,  and  transformed  a  country 
justice's  court,  for  the  time,  into  a  tribunal  as  august  as  the  King's  Bench.  His  pathetic 
utterances  will  never  be  forgotten  by  those  who  heard  them.  His  eyes  brimming  with 
sensibility,  and  the  melancholy  beauty  of  his  tones,  gave  to  sentences  like  those  in  the 
eulogy  on  Webster  a  melting  charm  that  was  beyond  the  actor's  art. 

Teachers  of  rhetoric  will  probably  say,  with  justice,  that  his  sentences  are  too  long  and 
involved,  and  that  his  very  affluence  begets  perplexity.  But  any  advice  to  students  to  avoid 
such  faults  is  quite  superfluous.  Choate's  was  a  tropical  nature,  fertile  to  profusion  ;  and 
the  sentences  of  luxuriant  growth  are  its  spontaneous  expression.  It  would  be  just  as  much 
to  the  point  to  advise  pupils  to  avoid  imitating  Shakespeare  or  Jeremy  Taylor  We  cannot 
prescribe  rules  for  mental  processes.  The  compact  and  brilliant  phrases  of  Emerson,  and 
the  many-membered  sentences  of  Choate,  are  alike  proper  to  the  men,  as  are  the  keen, 
philosophic  look  of  the  one,  and  the  inspired  and  irresistible  presence  of  the  other. 

Mr.  Choate  was  fortunate  in  his  domestic  relations,  and  the  glimpses  of  his  private  life, 
seen  in  his  published  letters,  show  that  he  was  loved  even  more  than  he  was  admired. 

His  life  and  selections  from  his  writings,  edited  by  Professor  S.  G.  Brown,  have  been 
published  in  two  volumes,  8vo.,  Boston,  Little,  Brown  &  Co. 

[From  the  Eulogy  on  Daniel  Webster.] 

AND,  therefore,  it  were  fitter  that  I  should  ask  of  you,  than  speak 
to  you,  concerning  him.  Little,  indeed,  anywhere  can  be  added  now 
to  that  wealth  of  eulogy  that  has  been  heaped  upon  his  tomb. 
Before  he  died,  even,  renowned  in  two  hemispheres,  in  ours  he 
seemed  to  be  known  with  a  universal  nearness  of  knowledge.  He 
walked  so  long  and  so  conspicuously  before  the  general  eye  ;  his 


RUFUS   CHOATE. 

actions,  his  opinions,  on  all  things  which  had  been  large  enough  to 
agitate  the  public  mind  for  the  last  thirty  years  and  more,  had  had 
importance  and  consequences  so  remarkable  —  anxiously  waited  for, 
passionately  canvassed,  not  adopted  always  into  the  particular  meas- 
ure, or  deciding  the  particular  vote  of  government  or  the  country, 
yet  sinking  deep  into  the  reason  of  the  people  —  a  stream  of  influence 
whose  fruits  it  is  yet  too  soon  for  political  philosophy  to  appreciate 
completely  ;  an  impression  of  his  extraordinary  intellectual  endow- 
ments, and  of  their  peculiar  superiority  in  that  most  imposing  and 
intelligible  of  all  forms  of  manifestation,  the  moving  of  others'  minds 
by  speech  —  this  impression  had  grown  so  universal  and  fixed,  and 
it  had  kindled  curiosity  to  hear  him  and  read  him  so  wide  and  so 
largely  indulged  ;  his  individually  altogether  was  so  absolute  and  so 
pronounced,  the  force  of  will  no  less  than  the  power  of  genius  ;  the 
exact  type  and  fashion  of  his  mind,  not  less  than  its  general  magni- 
tude, were  so  distinctly  shown  through  his  musical  transparent 
style  ;  the  exterior  of  the  man,  the  grand  mystery  of  brow  and  eye, 
the  deep  tones,  the  solemnity,  the  sovereignty,  as  of  those  who  would 
build  states,  where  every  power  and  every  grace  did  seem  to  set  its 
seal  had  been  made,  by  personal  observation,  by  description,  by  the 
exaggeration,  even,  of  those  who  had  felt  the  spell,  by  art,  the 
daguerreotype,  and  picture,  and  statue,  so  familiar  to  the  American 
eye,  graven  on  the  memory  like  the  Washington  of  Stuart ;  the  nar- 
rative of  the  mere  incidents  of  his  life  had  been  so  often  told  —  by 
some  so  authentically  and  with  such  skill  —  and  had  been  so  literal- 
ly committed  to  heart,  that  when  he  died  there  seemed  to  be  little 
left  but  to  say  when  and  how  his  change  came  ;  with  what  dignity, 
with  what  possession  of  himself,  with  what  loving  thought  forothers^ 
with  what  gratitude  to  God,  uttered  with  unfaltering  voice,  that  it 
was  appointed  to  him  there  to  die  ;  to  say  how  thus,  leaning  on  the 
rod  and  staff  of  the  promise,  he  took  his  way  into  the  great  darkness 
undismayed,  till  death  should  be  swallowed  up  of  life  ;  and  then  to 
relate  how  they  laid  him  in  that  simple  grave,  and  turning  and 
pausing,  and  joining  their  voices  to  the  voices  of  the  sea,  bade  him 
hail  and  farewell. 


But  there  were  other  fields  of  oratory  on  which,  under  the  influence 
of  more  uncommon  springs  of  inspiration,  he  exemplified,  in  still 
other  forms,  an  eloquence  in  which  I  do  not  know  that  he  has  had  a 
superior  among  men.  Addressing  masses  by  tens  of  thousands  in 


198       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

the  open  air,  on  the  urgent  political  questions  of  the  day,  or  de- 
signated to  lead  the  meditations  of  an  hour  devoted  to  the  remem- 
brance of  some  national  era,  or  of  some  incident  marking  the  progress 
of  the  nation,  and  lifting  him  up  to  a  view  of  what  is,  and  what  is 
past,  and  some  indistinct  revelations  of  the  glory  that  lies  in  the 
future,  or  of  some  great  historical  name,  just  borne  by  the  nation  to 
his  tomb  —  we  have  learned  that  then  and  there,  at  the  base  of 
Bunker  Hill,  before  the  corner-stone  was  laid,  and  again  when  from 
the  finished  column  the  centuries  looked  on  him  ;  in  Faneuil  Hall, 
mourning  for  those  with  whose  spoken  or  written  eloquence  of  free- 
dom its  arches  had  so  often  resounded  ;  on  the  rock  of  Plymouth  ; 
before  the  Capitol,  of  which  there  shall  not  be  one  stone  left  on 
another,  before  his  memory  shall  Jiave  ceased  to  live  —  in  such 
scenes,  unfettered  by  the  laws  of  forensic  or  parliamentary  debate  ; 
multitudes  uncounted  lifting  up  their  eyes  to  him  ;  some  great  his- 
torical scenes  of  America  around  ;  all  symbols  of  her  glory,  and  art, 
and  power,  and  fortune  there ;  voices  of  the  past,  not  unheard ; 
shapes  beckoning  from  the  future,  not  unseen  —  sometimes  that 
mighty  intellect,  borne  upwards  to  a  height  and  kindled  to  an 
illumination  which  we  shall  see  no  more,  wrought  out,  as  it  were, 
in  an  instant,  a  picture  of  vision,  warning,  prediction  ;  the  progress 
of  the  nation ;  the  contrasts  of  its  eras ;  the  heroic  deaths ;  the 
motives  to  patriotism ;  the  maxims  and  arts  imperial  by  which  the 
glory  has  been  gathered  and  may  be  heightened  —  wrought  out,  in 
an  instant,  a  picture  to  fade  only  when  all  record  of  our  mind 
shall  die. 

In  looking  over  the  public  remains  of  his  oratory,  it  is  striking  to 
remark  how,  even  in  that  most  sober  and  massive  understanding 
and  nature,  you  see  gathered  and  expressed  the  characteristic  senti- 
ments and  the  passing  time  of  our  America.  It  is  the  strong  old 
oak  which  ascends  before  you  ;  yet  our  soil,  our  heaven,  are  attested 
in  it  as  perfectly  as  if  it  were  a  flower  that  could  grow  in  no  other 
climate  and  in  no  other  hour  of  the  year  or  day.  Let  me  instance  in 
one  thing  only.  It  is  a  peculiarity  of  some  schools  of  eloquence 
that  they  embody  and  utter,  not  merely  the  individual  genius  and 
character  of  the  speaker,  but  a  national  consciousness,  —  a  national 
era,  a  mood,  a  hope,  a  dread,  a  despair,  — in  which  you  listen  to  the 
spoken  history  of  the  time.  There  is  an  eloquence  of  an  expiring 
nation,  such  as  seems  to  sadden  the  glorious  speech  of  Demosthenes  ; 
such  as  breathes  grand  and  gloomy  from  the  visions  of  the  prophets 
of  the  last  days  of  Israel  and  Judah  ;  such  as  gave  a  spell  to  the  ex- 


RUFUS    CHOATE.  IQ9 

pression  of  Grattan  and  of  Kossuth,  —  the  sweetest,  most  mournful, 
most  awful  of  the  words  which  man  may  utter,  or  which  man  may 
hear,  —  the  eloquence  of  a  perishing  nation.  There  is  another  elo- 
quence, in  which  the  national  consciousness  of  a  young  or  renewed 
and  vast  strength,  of  trust  in  a  dazzling,  certain,  and  limitless  future, 
an  inward  glorying  in  victories  yet  to  be  won,  sounds  out,  as  by  voice 
of  clarion,  challenging  to  contest  for  the  highest  prize  of  earth  ;  such 
as  that  in  which  the  leader  of  Israel  in  its  first  days  holds  up  to  the 
new  nation  the  Land  of  Promise  ;  such  as  that  which  in  the  well- 
imagined  speeches  scattered  by  Livy  over  the  history  of  the 
"  majestic  series  of  victories,"  speaks  the  Roman  consciousness  of 
growing  aggrandizement  which  should  subject  the  world;  such  as 
that  through  which,  at  the  tribunes  of  her  revolution,  in  the  bulletins 
of  her  rising  soldier,  France  told  to  the  world  her  dream  of  glory. 
And  of  this  kind  somewhat  is  ours  ;  cheerful,  hopeful,  trusting,  as 
befits  youth  and  spring;  the  eloquence  of  a  state  beginning  to 
ascend  to  the  first  class  of  power,  eminence,  and  consideration,  and 
conscious  of  itself.  It  is  to  no  purpose  that  they  tell  you  it  is  in 
bad  taste  ;  that  it  partakes  of  arrogance  and  vanity ;  that  a  true 
national  good  breeding  would  not  know,  or  seem  to  know,  whether 
the  nation  is  old  or  young ;  whether  the  tides  of  being  are  in  their 
flow  or  ebb  ;  whether  these  coursers  of  the  sun  are  sinking  slowly  to 
rest,  wearied  with  a  journey  of  a  thousand  years,  or  just  bounding 
from  the  Orient  unbreathed.  Higher  laws  than  those  of  taste 
determine  the  consciousness  of  nations.  Higher  laws  than  those  of 
taste  determine  the  general  forms  of  the  expression  of  that  con- 
sciousness. Let  the  downward  age  of  America  find  its  orators,  and 
poets,  and  artists  to  erect  its  spirit,  or  grace  and  soothe  its  dying ; 
be  it  ours  to  go  up  with  Webster  to  the  rock,  the  monument,  the 
capitol,  and  bid  "  the  distant  generations  hail  "  !  .  .  . 

We  seem  to  see  his  form  and  hear  his  deep  grave  speech  every- 
where. By  some  felicity  of  his  personal  life  ;  by  some  wise,  deep,  or 
beautiful  word  spoken  or  written  ;  by  some  service  of  his  own,  or 
some  commemoration  of  the  services  of  others,  it  has  come  to  pass 
that  "our  granite  hills,  our  inland  seas  and  prairies,  and  fresh,  un- 
bounded, magnificent  wilderness  ;  "  our  encircling  ocean  ;  the  rest- 
ing place  of  the  Pilgrims  ;  our  new-born  sister  of  the  Pacific  ;  our 
popular  assemblies  ;  our  free  schools  ;  all  our  cherished  doctrines 
of  education,  and  of  the  influence  of  religion,  and  material  policy 
and  law,  and  the  Constitution,  give  us  back  his  name.  What 
American  landscape  will  you  look  on  ;  what  subject  of  American 


20O  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

interest  will  you  study ;  what  source  of  hope  or  of  anxiety,  as  an 
American,  will  you  acknowledge  that  it  does  not  recall  him  ?  .  .  . 
But  it  is  time  that  this  eulogy  was  spoken.  My  heart  goes  back 
into  the  coffin  there  with  him,  and  I  would  pause.  I  went  —  it  is  a 
day  or  two  since  —  alone,  to  see  again  the  home  which  he  so  dearly 
loved,  the  chamber  where  he  died,  the  grave  in  which  they  laid  him 
—  all  habited  as  when 

"  His  look  drew  audience  still  as  night, 
Or  summer's  noontide  air," 

till  the  heavens  be  no  more.  Throughout  that  spacious  and  calm 
scene  all  things  to  the  eye  showed  at  first  unchanged.  The  books 
in  the  library,  the  portraits,  the  table  at  which  he  wrote,  the  scien- 
tific culture  of  the  land,  the  course  of  agricultural  occupation,  the 
coming-in  of  harvests,  fruit  of  the  seed  his  own  hand  had  scattered, 
the  animals  and  implements  of  husbandry,  the  trees  planted  by  him 
in  lines,  in  copses,  in  orchards,  by  thousands,  the  seat  under  the 
noble  elm  on  which  he  used  to  sit  to  feel  the  south-west  wind  at 
evening,  or  hear  the  breathings  of  the  sea,  or  the  not  less  audible 
music  of  the  starry  heavens,  all  seemed  at  first  unchanged.  The 
sun  of  a  bright  day,  from  which,  however,  something  of  the  fervors 
of  midsummer  were  wanting,  fell  temperately  on  them  all,  filled  the 
air  on  all  sides  with  the  utterances  of  life,  and  gleamed  on  the  long 
line  of  ocean.  Some  of  those  whom  on  earth  he  loved  best  still 
were  there.  The  great  mind  still  seemed  to  preside ;  the  great 
presence  to  be  with  you ;  you  might  expect  to  hear  again  the  rich 
and  playful  tones  of  the  voice  of  the  old  hospitality.  '  Yet  a  moment 
more,  and  all  the  scene  took  on  the  aspect  of  one  great  monument, 
inscribed  with  his  name,  and  sacred  to  his  memory.  And  such  it 
shall  be  in  all  the  future  of  America  !  The  sensation  of  desolate- 
ness,  and  loneliness,  and  darkness,  with  which  you  see  it  now,  will 
pass  away ;  the  sharp  grief  of  love  and  friendship  will  become 
soothed  ;  men  will  repair  thither  as  they  are  wont  to  commemorate 
the  great  days  of  history  ;  the  same  glance  shall  take  in,  and  the 
same  emotions  shall  greet  and  bless  the  harbor  of  the  Pilgrims,  and 
the  tomb  of  Webster. 


GEORGE   BANCROFT.  2OI 


GEORGE   BANCROFT. 

George  Bancroft  was  born  at  Worcester,  Mass.,  October  3,  1800  and  was  graduated  at 
Harvard  College  in  1817.  His  college  course  was  but  the  beginning  of  his  education.  He 
sailed  to  Europe,  and  pursued  a  great  variety  of  studies  for  five  years  under  the  most  eminent 
professors,  at  Gb'ttingen,  Berlin,  Heidelberg,  Paris,  and  in  several  Italian  cities,  forming 
acquaintances  also  with  many  of  the  most  famous  scholars  and  savants.  On  his  return,  he  was 
tutor  at  Harvard  for  a  year,  and  was  for  a  short  time  connected  with  the  Round  Hill  classi- 
cal school  at  Northampton.  He  was  an  avowed  advocate  of  universal  suffrage  and  of  demo- 
cratic principles,  but  he  declined  at  that  time  to  enter  public  life,  as  he  had  formed  the  design 
of  writing  a  history  of  the  United  States.  The  first  volume  of  the  history  appeared  in  1834. 
The  second  volume  was  written  in  Springfield,  in  which  place  he  resided  for  three  years. 
In  1838  he  was  appointed  collector  of  the  port  of  Boston,  but  neither  his  official  duties  nor 
his  party  services  drew  his  attention  from  historical  composition,  and  his  third  volume  was 
published  in  1840.  He  was  an  unsuccessful  candidate  for  governor  in  1844,  and  the  follow- 
ing year  was  appointed  secretary  of  the  navy  by  President  Polk.  It  was  due  to  his  efforts 
that  the  Naval  Academy  at  Annapolis  was  established.  In  1846  he  was  appointed  minister  to 
England,  and  remained  abroad  until  1849,  when  he  returned  and  resumed  his  literary  work. 
The  fourth  and  fifth  volumes  were  published  in  1852,  the  sixth  in  1854,  the  seventh  in  1858, 
the  eighth  in  1860,  the  ninth  in  1866.  The  work  is  still  unfinished,  the  last  volume 
bringing  the  narrative  nearly  to  the  close  of  the  revolutionary  war.  It  is  understood  that 
the  history  will  be  completed  to  the  peace  of  1783  with  the  tenth  volume.  In  1867  he  was 
appointed  minister  to  Berlin,  a  position  that  he  still  holds  (1872). 

Bancroft  is  the  "  standard  "  American  historian  ;  the  only  one  who  has  succeeded  in  attract- 
ing general  attention,  and  in  being  accepted  by  all  parties  as  an  authority.  He  takes  a 
philosophic  view  of  events,  and  endeavors  to  show  that  the  natural  development  of  our  gov- 
ernment has  been  in  accordance  with  the  principles  of  the  democratic  party,  as  originated  by 
Jefferson,  and  carried  out  by  Jackson  and  his  successors.  He  has-been  as  fair  as  could  be 
expected  from  a  partisan  who  had  his  own  theory  of  politics^establish../^  As  a  narrative,  the 
work  is  clear  and  perspicuous ;  but  the  style,  though  carefully  finished,  is  not  indica- 
tive of  genius.  /  There  are  certain  episodes,  in  which  the  desire  for  picturesque  effect  is 
quite  evident ;  but  the  author  is  learned  and  laborious,  rather  than  spirited  and  graphic. 
Perhaps  it  is  too  soon  to  expect  a  history  of  the  United  States  that  should  unite  accuracy 
in  details  with  dramatic  grouping,  high  moral  views,  and  an  imaginative  style.  The  time 
may  come  for  such  a  history ;  but  Bancroft's  differs  as  much  from  that  ideal  work  as  a 
topographical  chart  of  Venice  would  differ  from  a  painting  by  Turner  of  the  domes  of  that 
sea-born  city. 

It  is  not  intended  to  depreciate  the  great  merits  of  our  historian  ;  for  it  remains  true  that 
his  work  is  much  the  best  thus  far  attempted,  and  no  intelligent  American  can  afford  to 
leave  it  unread. 

[From  the  History  of  the  United  States.] 

WILLIAM  PENN'S  TREATY  WITH  THE  INDIANS. 

BENEATH  a  large  elm  tree  at  Shakamaxon,  on  the  northern  edge 
of  Philadelphia,  William  Penn,  surrounded  by  a  few  friends,  in  the 
habiliments  of  peace,  met  the  numerous  delegation  of  the  Lenni 
Lenape  tribes.  The  great  treaty  was  not  for  the  purchase  of  lands, 
but,  confirming  what  Penn  had  written,  and  Markham  covenanted, 
its  sublime  purpose  was  the  recognition  of  the  equal  rights  of  hu- 


2O2  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

manity.  Under  the  shelter  of  the  forest,  now  leafless  by  the  frosts 
of  autumn,  Penn  proclaimed  to  the  men  of  the  Algonquin  race,  from 
both  banks  of  the  Delaware,  from  the  borders  of  the  Schuylkill,  and, 
it  may  have  been,  even  from  the  Susquehanna,  the  same  simple 
message  of  peace  and  love  which  George  Fox  had  professed  before 
Cromwell,  and  Mary  Fisher  had  borne  to  the  Grand  Turk.  The 
English  and  the  Indian  should  respect  the  same  moral  law,  should 
be  alike  secure  in  their  pursuits  and  their  possessions,  and  adjust 
every  difference  by  a  peaceful  tribunal,  composed  of  an  equal  num- 
ber of  men  from  each  race.  "  We  meet,"  such  were  the  words  of 
William  Penn,  "  on  the  broad  pathway  of  good  faith  and  good  will ; 
no  advantage  shall  be  taken  on  either  side,  but  all  shall  be  openness 
and  love.  I  will  not  call  you  children  ;  for  parents  sometimes  chide 
their  children  too  severely :  nor  brothers  only ;  for  brothers  differ. 
The  friendship  between  me  and  you  I  will  not  compare  to  a  chain  ; 
for  that  the  rains  might  rust,  or  the  falling  tree  might  break.  We  are 
the  same  as  if  one  man's  body  were  to  be  divided  into  two  parts  ;  we 
are  all  one  flesh  and  blood."  The  children  of  the  forest  were  touched 
by  the  sacred  doctrine,  and  renounced  their  guile  and  their  revenge. 
They  received  the  presents  of  Penn  in  sincerity  ;  and  with  hearty 
friendship  they  gave  the  belt  of  wampum.  "  We  will  live,"  said 
they,  "  in  love  with  William  Penn  and  his  children,  as  long  as  the 
moon  and  the  sun  shall  endure."  This  treaty  of  peace  and  friend- 
ship was  made  under  the  open  sky,  by  the  side  of  the  Delaware, 
with  the  sun,  and  the  river,  and  the  forest  for  witnesses.  It  was 
not  confirmed  by  an  oath  ;  it  was  not  ratified  by  signatures  and 
seals  ;  no  written  record  of  the  conference  can  be  found  ;  and  its 
terms  and  conditions  had  no  abiding  monument  but  on  the  heart. 
There  they  were  written  like  the  law  of  God,  and  were  never  for- 
gotten The  simple  sons  of  the  wilderness,  returning  to  their  wig- 
wams, kept  the  history  of  the  covenant  by  strings  of  wampum,  and, 
long  afterwards,  in  their  cabins,  would  count  over  the  shells  on  a 
clean  piece  of  bark,  and  recall  to  their  own  memory,  and  repeat  to 
their  children  or  to  the  stranger,  the  words  of  William  Penn.  New 
England  had  just  terminated  a  disastrous  war  of  extermination  ;  the 
Dutch  were  scarcely  ever  at  peace  with  the  Algonquins  ;  the  laws 
of  Maryland  refer  to  Indian  hostilities  and  massacres,  which  ex- 
tended as  far  as  Richmond.  Penn  came  without  arms  ;  he  declared 
his  purpose  to  abstain  from  violence  ;  he  had  no  message  but  peace  ; 
and  not  a  drop  of  Quaker  blood  was  ever  shed  by  an  Indian.  .  .  . 
In  the  following  year,  Penn  often  met  the  Indians  in  council  and 


GEORGE   BANCROFT.  2O3 

at  their  festivals.  He  visited  them  in  their  cabins,  shared  the 
hospitable  banquet  of  hominy  and  roasted  acorns,  and  laughed,  and 
frolicked,  and  practised  athletic  games  with  the  light-hearted,  mirth- 
ful, confiding  red  man.  He  spoke  with  them  of  religion,  and  found 
that  the  tawny  skin  did  not  exclude  the  instinct  of  a  Deity.  "  The 
poor  savage  people  believed  in  God  and  the  soul  without  the  aid  of 
metaphysics."  He  touched  the  secret  springs  of  sympathy,  and 
succeeding  generations  on  the  Susquehanna  acknowledged  his 
loveliness. 


VIRGINIA   IN  EARLY  TIMES. 

THE  genial  climate  and  transparent  atmosphere  delighted  those 
who  had  come  from  the  denser  air  of  England.  Every  object  in 
nature  was  new  and  wonderful.  The  loud  and  frequent  thunder 
storms  were  phenomena  that  had  been  rarely  witnessed  in  the 
colder  summers  of  the  north  ;  the  forests,  majestic  in  their  growth, 
and  free  from  underwood,  deserved  admiration  for  their  unrivalled 
magnificence ;  the  purling  streams  and  the  frequent  rivers,  flowing 
between  alluvial  banks,  quickened  the  ever-pregnant  soil  into  an 
unwearied  fertility ;  the  strangest  and  the  most  delicate  flowers  grew 
familiarly  in  the  fields  ;  the  woods  were  replenished  with  sweet 
barks  and  odors  ;  the  gardens  matured  the  fruits  of  Europe,  of 
which  the  growth  was  invigorated  and  the  flavor  improved  by  the 
activity  of  the  virgin  mould.  Especially  the  birds,  with  their  gay 
plumage  and  varied  melodies,  inspired  delight ;  every  traveller  ex- 
pressed his  pleasure  in  listening  to  the  mocking  bird,  which  carolled 
a  thousand  several  tunes,  imitating  and  excelling  the  notes  of  all  its 
rivals.  The  humming  bird,  so  brilliant  in  its  plumage,  and  so 
delicate  in  its  form,  quick  in  motion,  yet  not  fearing  the  presence  of 
man,  haunting  about  the  flowers  like  the  bee  gathering  honey,  re- 
bounding from  the  blossoms  into  which  it  dips  its  bill,  and  as  soon 
returning  "  to  renew  its  many  addresses  to  its  delightful  objects," 
was  ever  admired  as  the  smallest  and  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
feathered  race.  The  rattlesnake,  with  the  terrors  of  its  alarms  and 
the  power  of  its  venom  ;  the  opossum,  soon  to  become  as  celebrated 
for  the  care  of  its  offspring  as  the  fabled  pelican ;  the  noisy  frog, 
booming  from  the  shallows  like  the  English  bittern ;  the  flying 
squirrel ;  the  myriads  of  pigeons,*  darkening  the  air  with  the  im- 
mensity of  their  flocks,  and,  as  men  believed,  breaking  with  their 

*  See  Audubon,  p.  69. 


2O4  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

weight  the  boughs  of  trees  on  which  they  alighted,  —  were  all 
honored  with  frequent  commemoration,  and  became  the  subjects  of 
the  strangest  tales. 

The  concurrent  relation  of  all  the  Indians  justified  the  belief  that, 
within  ten  days  journey  towards  the  setting  of  the  sun,  there  was  a 
country  where  gold  might  be  washed  from  the  sand,  and  where  the 
natives  themselves  had  learned  the  use  of  the  crucible  ;  but  definite 
and  accurate  as  were  the  accounts,  inquiry  was  always  bafHed  ;  and 
the  regions  of  gold  remained  for  two  centuries  an  undiscovered  land. 
Various  were  the  employments  by  which  the  calmness  of  life  was 
relieved. 

"George  Sandys,  an  idle  man,  who  had  been  a  great  traveller,  and 
who  did  not  remain  in  America,  a  poet,  whose  verse  was  tolerated 
by  Dryden  and  praised  by  Izaak  Walton,  beguiled  the  ennui  of  his 
seclusion  by  translating  the  whole  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses.  To 
the  man  of  leisure,  the  chase  furnished  a  perpetual  resource.  It 
was  not  long  before  the  horse  was  multiplied  in  Virginia ;  and  to 
improve  that  noble  animal  was  early  an  object  of  pride,  soon  to  be 
favored  by  legislation.  Speed  was  especially  valued ;  and  "  the 
planter's  pace"  became  a  proverb.  Equally  proverbial  was  the 
hospitality  of  the  Virginians.  Labor  was  valuable  ;  land  was  cheap  ; 
competence  promptly  followed  industry.  There  was  no  need  of  a 
scramble  ;  abundance  gushed  from  the  earth  for  all.  The  morasses 
were  alive  with  water  fowl ;  the  creeks  abounded  with  oysters, 
heaped  together  in  inexhaustible  beds ;  the  rivers  were  crowded 
with  fish ;  the  forests  were  nimble  with  game  ;  the  woods  rustled 
with  coveys  of  quails  and  wild  turkeys,  while  they  tang  with  the 
merry  notes  of  the  singing  birds  ;  and  hogs,  swarming  like  vermin, 
ran  at  large  in  troops.  It  was  "  the  best  poor  man's  country  in  the 
world."  "  If  a  happy  peace  be  settled  in  poor  England,"  it  had 
been  said,  "  then  they  in  Virginia  shall  be  as  happy  a  people  as  any 
under  heaven."  But  plenty  encouraged  indolence.  No  domestic 
manufactures  were  established ;  everything  was  imported  from  Eng- 
land. The  chief  branch  of  industry,  for  the  purpose  of  exchanges, 
was  tobacco-planting ;  and  the  spirit  of  invention  was  enfeebled  by 
the  uniformity  of  pursuit. 


GEORGE   BANCROFT.  2O5 


ROGER   WILLIAMS. 

WHILE  the  state  was  thus  connecting  by  the  closest  bonds  the 
energy  of  its  faith  with  its  form  of  government,  then  appeared  in  its 
midst  one  of  those  clear  minds,  which  sometimes  bless  the  world  by 
their  power  of  receiving  moral  truth  in  its  purest  light,  and  of 
reducing  the  just  conclusions  of  their  principles  to  a  happy  and  con- 
sistent practice.  In  February  of  the  first  year  of  the  colony,  but  a 
few  months  after  the  arrival  of  Winthrop,  and  before  either  Cotton 
or  Hooker  had  embarked  for  New  England,  there  arrived  at  Nan- 
tasket,  after  a  stormy  passage  of  sixty-six  days,  "  a  young  minister, 
godly  and  zealous,  having  precious  gifts."  It  was  Roger  Williams. 
He  was  then  but  a  little  more  than  thirty  years  of  age  ;  but  his  mind 
had  already  matured  a  doctrine  which  secures  him  an  immortality 
of  fame,  as  its  application  has  given  religious  peace  to  the  American 
world.  He  was  a  Puritan,  and  a  fugitive  from  English  persecution  ; 
but  his  wrongs  had  not  clouded  his  accurate  understanding  ;  in  the 
capacious  recesses  of  his  mind  he  had  revolved  the  nature  of  intoler- 
ance, and  he,  and  he  alone,  had  arrived  at  the  great  principle  which 
is  its  sole  effectual  remedy.  He  announced  his  discovery  under  the 
simple  proposition  of  the  sanctity  of  conscience.  The  civil  magis- 
trate should  restrain  crime,  but  never  control  opinion  ;  should  pun- 
ish guilt,  but  never  violate  the  freedom  of  the  soul.  The  doctrine 
contained  within  itself  an  entire  reformation  of  theological  juris- 
prudence :  it  would  blot  from  the  statute-book  the  felony  of  non-con- 
formity ;  would  quench  the  fires  that  persecution  had  so  long  kept 
burning ;  would  repeal  every  law  compelling  attendance  on  public 
worship ;  would  abolish  tithes  and  all  forced  contributions  to  the 
maintenance  of  religion  ;  would  give  an  equal  protection  to  every 
form  of  religious  faith ;  and  never  suffer  the  authority  of  the  civil 
government  to  be  enlisted  against  the  mosque  of  the  Mussulman  or 
the  altar  of  the  fire-worshipper,  against  the  Jewish  synagogue  or 
the  Roman  cathedral.  It  is  wonderful  with  what  distinctness  Roger 
Williams  deduced  these  inferences  from  his  great  principle,  the  con- 
sistency with  which,  like  Pascal  and  Edwards,  those  bold  and  pro- 
found reasoners  on  other  subjects,  he  accepted  every  fair  inference 
from  his  doctrines,  and  the  circumspection  with  which  he  repelled 
every  unjust  imputation.  In  the  unwavering  assertion  of  his  views 
he  never  changed  his  position  ;  the  sanctity  of  conscience  was  the 
great  tenet,  which,  with  all  its  consequences,  he  defended,  as  he  first 
trod  the  shores  of  New  England ;  and  in  his  extreme  old  age  it  was 


2O6  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

the  last  pulsation  of  his  heart.  But  it  placed  the  young  emigrant  in 
direct  opposition  to  the  whole  system  on  which  Massachusetts  was 
founded  ;  and  gentle  and  forgiving  as  was  his  temper,  prompt  as 
he  was  to  concede  everything  which  honesty  permitted,  he  al- 
ways asserted  his  belief  with  temperate  firmness  and  unbending 
benevolence. 


GEORGE  PERKINS  MARSH. 

George  Perkins  Marsh  was  born  in  Woodstock,  Vt.,  March  17,  1801,  and  was  graduated 
at  Dartmouth  College  in  1820.  He  studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  Burlington. 
He  was  chosen  a  representative  in  Congress  in  1842,  and  remained  in  service  until  1849, 
when  he  was  appointed  minister  to  Constantinople.  In  1852  he  was  sent  on  a  special  mis- 
sion to  Greece.  On  his  return  he  was  almost  constantly  in  public  service  in  his  native  state 
until  1861,  when  he  was  appointed  minister  to  the  Italian  government,  a  position  which  he 
now  occupies.  Mr.  Marsh  is  an  eminent  scholar  in  the  northern  languages  of  Europe,  and 
holds  a  high  place  among  philologists.  His  principal  work,  entitled  Lectures  on  the  Eng- 
lish Language,  is  a  treatise  of  great  value,  and  possesses  an  unusual  degree  of  interest. 

[From  Lectures  on  the  English  Language.] 

No  living  language  yet  possesses  a  dictionary  so  complete  as  to 
give  all  the  words  in  use  at  any  one  period,  still  less  all  those  that 
have  belonged  to  it  during  the  whole  extent  of  its  literary  history. 
We  cannot,  therefore,  arrive  at  any  precise  results  as  to  the  com- 
parative copiousness  of  our  own  and  other  languages,  but  there  is  a 
reason  to  think  that  the  vocabulary  of  English  is  among  the  most 
extensive  now  employed  by  man. 

The  number  of  English  words  not  yet  obsolete,  but  found  in  good 
authors,  or  in  approved  usage  by  correct  speakers,  including  the 
nomenclature  of  science  and  the  arts,  does  not  probably  fall  short 
of  one  hundred  thousand.  Now  there  are  persons  who  know  this 
vocabulary  in  nearly  its  whole  extent,  but  they  understand  a  large 
proportion  of  it  much  as  they  are  acquainted  with  Greek  or  Latin, 
that  is,  as  the  dialect  of  books,  or  of  special  arts  or  professions,  and 
not  as  a  living  speech,  the  common  language  of  daily  and  hourly 
thought.  Or  if,  like  some  celebrated  English  and  American  ora- 
tors, living  and  dead,  they  are  able,  upon  occasion,  to  bring  into 
the  field  in  the  war  of  words  even  the  half  of  this  vast  array  of  light 
and  heavy  troops,  yet  they  habitually  content  themselves  with  a  much 
less  imposing  display  of  verbal  force,  and  use  for  ordinary  purposes 
but  a  very  small  proportion  of  the  words  they  have  at  their  com- 
mand. Out  of  our  immense  magazine  of  words,  and  their  combina- 


GEORGE  PERKINS  MARSH.  2O/ 

tions,  every  man  selects  his  own  implements  and  weapons,  and  we 
should  find  in  the  verbal  repertory  of  each  individual,  were  it  once 
fairly  laid  open  to  us,  a  key  that  would  unlock  many  mysteries  of 
his  particular  humanity,  many  secrets  of  his  private  history. 

Few  writers  or  speakers  use  as  many  as  ten  thousand  words  ;  or- 
dinary persons,  of  fair  intelligence,  not  above  three  or  four  thousand. 
If  a  scholar  were  to  be  required  to  name,  without  examination,  the 
authors  whose  English  vocabulary  was  the  largest,  he  would  prob- 
ably specify  the  all-embracing  Shakespeare,  and  the  all-knowing 
Milton.  And  yet  in  all  the  works  of  the  great  dramatist,  there  occur 
not  more  than  fifteen  thousand  words,  in  the  poems  of  Milton  not 
above  eight  thousand.  The  whole  number  of  Egyptian  hieroglyphic 
symbols  does  not  exceed  eight  hundred,  and  the  entire  Italian  ope- 
ratic vocabulary  is  said  to  be  scarcely  more  extensive. 

To  those  whose  attention  has  not  been  turned  to  the  subject, 
these  are  surprising  facts  ;  but  if  we  run  over  a  few  pages  of  a  dic- 
tionary, and  observe  how  great  a  proportion  of  the  words  are  such 
as  we  do  not  ourselves  individually  use,  we  shall  be  forced  to  con- 
clude that  we  each  find  a  very  limited  vocabulary  sufficient  for  our 
own  purposes.  Although  we  have  few  words  absolutely  synony- 
mous, yet  every  important  thought,  image,  and  feeling  has  numer- 
ous allied,  if  not  equivalent,  forms  of  expression,  and  out  of  these 
every  man  appropriates  and  almost  exclusively  employs  those  which 
most  closely  accord  with  his  own  mental  constitution,  his  tastes 
and  opinions,  the  style  of  his  favorite  authors,  or  which  best  accom- 
modate themselves  to  the  rest  of  his  habitual  phraseology.  One 
man  will  say  a  thankful  heart,  another  a  grateful spirit /  one  usually 
e m pi oys  fancy  where  another  would  say  imagination  ;  one  describes 
a  friend  as  a  person  of  sanguine  temperament,  another  speaks  of 
him  as  a  man  of  a  hopeful  spirit;  one  regards  a  winter  passage 
around  Cape  Horn  as  a  very  hazardous  voyage,  another  considers 
it  a  peculiarly  dangerous  trip ;  one  man  begins  to  build,  another 
commences  building.  Men  of  moderate  passions  employ  few  epi- 
thets, with  verbs  and  substantives  of  mild  significations  ;  excitable 
men  use  numerous  intensives,  and  words  of  strong  and  stirring 
meanings.  Loose  thinkers  content  themselves  with  a  single  expres- 
sion for  a  large  class  of  related  ideas  ;  logical  men  scrupulously 
select  the  precise  word  which  corresponds  to  the  thought  they  utter, 
and  yet  among  persons  of  but  average  intelligence  each  understands, 
though  not  employing,  the  vocabulary  of  all  the  rest. 

It  is  evident  that  unity  of  speech  is  essential  to  the  unity  of  a  peo- 


2O8  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

pie.  Community  of  language  is  a  stronger  bond  than  identity  of 
religion  or  of  government,  and  contemporaneous  nations  of  one 
speech,  however  formally  separated  by  differences  of  creed  or  of 
political  organization,  are  essentially  one  in  culture,  one  in  tendency, 
one  in  influence.  The  fine,  patriotic  effusion  of  Arndt,  "  Was  ist 
des  Deutschen  Vaterland ? "  *  was  founded  upon  the  idea  that  the 
oneness  of  the  German  speech  implied  a  oneness  of  spirit,  of  inter- 
est, of  aims,  and  of  duties,  and  the  universal  acceptance  with  which 
the  song  was  received,  was  evidence  that  the  poet  had  struck  a  chord 
to  which  every  Teutonic  heart  responded.  The  national  language 
is  the  key  to  the  national  intellect,  the  national  heart,  and  it  is  the 
special  vocation  of  what  is  technically  called  philology,  as  distin- 
guished from  linguistics,  to  avail  itself  of  the  study  of  language  as  a 
means  of  knowing,  not  man  in  the  abstract,  but  man  as  collected  into 
distinct  communities,  informed  with  the  same  spirit,  exposed  to  the 
same  moulding  influences,  and  pursuing  the  same  great  objects  by 
substantially  the  same  means.  We  are  certainly  not  authorized  to 
conclude  that  all  the  individuals  of  a  nation  are  altogether  alike  be- 
cause they  speak  the  same  mother  tongue,  but  their  characters  pre- 
sumably resemble  each  other  as  nearly  as  the  fragments  of  the  com- 
mon language  which  each  has  appropriated  to  his  own  use.  Every 
individual  selects  from  the  general  stock  his  own  vocabulary,  his 
favorite  combinations  of  words,  his  own  forms  of  syntax,  and  thus 
frames  for  himself  a  dialect,  the  outward  expression  of  which  is  an 
index  to  the  inner  life  of  the  man.  No  two  Englishmen,  Germans, 
or  Frenchmen  speak  and  act  in  all  points  alike,  yet  in  character  as 
well  as  in  speech  they  would  generally  be  found  to  have  more  points 
of  sympathy  and  resemblance  with  each  other  than  either  of  them 
with  any  man  of  a  different  tongue. 

The  relations  between  the  grammatical  structure  or  general  idiom 
of  a  language  and  the  moral  and  intellectual  character  of  those  who 
speak  it,  are  usually  much  more  uncertain  and  obscure  than  the  con- 
nection between  the  particular  words  which  compose  their  stock,  and 
the  thoughts,  habits,  and  tendencies  of  those  who  employ  them. 
Except  under  circumstances  where  our  mouths  are  sealed  and  our 
thoughts  suppressed,  from  motives  of  prudence,  of  delicacy,  or  of 
shame,  the  names  of  the  objects  dearest  to  the  heart,  the  expression 
of  the  passions  which  most  absorb  us,  the  nomenclature  of  the  re- 
ligious, social,  or  political  creeds  or  parties  to  which  we  have  attached 

ourselves,  will  most  frequently  rise  to  the  lips.     Hence  it  is  the 

• 

*  What  is  the  German's  fatherland? 


THEODORE   DWIGHT    WOOLSEY.  2CX} 

vocabulary  and  the  phraseological  combinations  of  the  man,  or  class 
of  men,  which  must  serve  as  the  clew  to  guide  us  into  the  secret 
recesses  of  their  being  ;  and  in  spite  of  occasional  exceptions,  appar- 
ent or  real,  it  is  generally  true  that  our  choice  of  words,  as  also  of 
the  special  or  conventional  meanings  of  words,  is  determined  by  the 
character,  the  ruling  passion,  the  habitual  thoughts ;  by  the  life,  in 
short,  of  the  man  ;  and  in  this  sense  Ben  Jonson  uttered  a  great 
and  important  truth  when  he  said,  "  Language  most  shows  a 
man  :  speak,  that  I  may  see  thee  !  It  springs  out  of  the  most  re- 
tired and  inmost  parts  of  us,  and  is  the  image  of  the  parent  of  it, 
the  mind.  No  glass  renders  a  man's  form  and  likeness  so  true  as 
his  speech." 


THE«D@RE   DWIGHT  WMLSEY. 

Theodore  Dwight  Woolsey  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  October  31,  1801.  He 
received  his  education  at  Yale  College,  graduating  in  1820.  He  spent  two  years  in  the 
study  of  theology  at  Princeton,  N.  J.,  and  two  more  as  tutor  at  Yale.  In  1831  he  was  ap- 
pointed professor  of  Greek,  and  in  1846  was  chosen  president  of  the  college,  which  place  he 
held  until  1871.  He  has  edited  several  Greek  text  books,  and  has  been  a  frequent  writer 
for  the  reviews,  especially  the  New  Englander,  which  is  published  at  New  Haven.  He 
published  a  treatise  upon  the  elements  of  International  Law  in  1860,  and  one  upon  Divorce 
in  1869.  A  volume  of  his  university  sermons  appeared  in  1871,  under  the  title  of  The  Re- 
ligion of  the  Present  and  the  Future. 

Dr.  Woolsey  has  long  been  conspicuous  among  American  scholars  for  the  extent  and 
thoroughness  of  his  learning,  his  power  of  thought,  and  his  clear  and  admirable  style.  The 
moral  elevation  of  his  character  gives  great  and  almost  authoritative  weight  to  his  opinions, 
especially  upon  questions  of  public  law.  During  his  long  connection  with  the  college  his 
personal  influence  has  been  constantly  on  the  increase,  and  he  is  regarded  by  the  graduates 
with  respect  and  love. 

[From  the  Religion  of  the  Present  and  the  Future.] 
"  Other  men  labored,  and  ye  have  entered  into  their  labors."    John  iv.  38. 

LET  us  consider,  in  some  of  its  particulars,  this  plan  of  God  for 
the  human  race  —  that  each  generation  enters  into  the  labors  of  its 
predecessors,  reaping  what  they  have  sown,  while  at  the  same  time, 
if  it  is  true  to  its  appointed  work,  it  hands  over  something  more  to 
posterity  than  it  had  received.  Reflect,  then,  first,  on  the  labors 
which  the  teachers  of  mankind  have  undergone,  in  order  that  the 
world  might  reach  its  present  state  of  advancement.  The  class  of 
teachers  may  be  divided  into  two  portions,  into  such  as  transmit 
only  and  such  as  only  originate.  The  first  act  directly  on  those 
who  are  just  following  them  in  the  order  of  time ;  the  others  have  a 


2IO  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

much  wider  field  of  direct  action  ;  they  are  the  teachers  of  all  time, 
"  the  masters  of  all  who  know."  To  few  is  it  given,  out  of  the  whole 
human  race,  thus  to  act  over  many  ages  and  through  many  lands. 
The  greatest  portio'n  either  move  the  thought  of  their  own  times  in 
new  channels,  or,  in  a  more  humble  office  still,  simply  make  known 
to  others  what  they  themselves  have  learned.  Yet  all  these  teachers 
have  labored,  and  men  are  entered  into  their  labors.  They  have 
labored  hard  and  long.  Men,  as  they  enjoy  a  work  of  art  or  give 
themselves  to  the  study  of  a  work  of  philosophy,  must  not  suppose 
that  everything  flowed  smoothly  while  the  composition  was  going 
on,  or  that  there  were  no  difficulties  in  the  preparation.  "  He  that 
goeth  forth  weeping,  bearing  precious  seed,"  is  the  fit  motto  for  all 
who  have  employed  their  minds  for  the  benefit  of  mankind.  What 
agony  of  mind  have  inventors  endured  ;  what  anxiety  and  heart- 
sickness  ;  what  unfruitful  experiments,  reaching  through  long  years, 
have  they  tried  before  success  crowned  their  efforts  !  The  same  is 
true  of  any  work  of  art  which  has  long  kept  its  place  in  the  heart  of 
a  nation  or  of  the  world.  A  work  of  genius  is  the  essence,  it  may 
be,  of  a  whole  life,  the  condensed  knowledge,  judgment,  skill,  that 
make  up  the  man.  So,  too,  in  all  the  sciences,  as  in  the  philosophy 
of  thought  or  of  morals,  what  perplexities  has  a  mind  contended 
with,  what  hope  and  patience  has  it  spent,  what  weighings  of  evi- 
dence, what  reflection,  what  consultation  have  been  needed  before 
the  painful  work  of  composition  began.  It  must  not  be  supposed 
that  glimpses  of  truth  are  vouchsafed  to  those  that  skim  over  the 
surface  of  things  in  the  spirit  of  curiosity  or  amusement,  nor  that 
inventions  enter  vacant  minds  unsought  and  in  full  perfection  ;  nor 
that  to  the  great  poet  or  painter  even  the  labor  of  composition  or  of 
correction,  severe  as  it  is,  at  all  compares  with  that  preparatory 
thought  and  work  on  which  the  whole  achievement  depended. 

So,  also,  the  other  class  of  teachers  whose  office  it  is  to  put  knowl- 
edge derived  from  others  into  form,  and  to  train  the  minds  of  their 
generations  —  they,  too,  have  labored  long  and  earnestly  in  order  to 
fit  themselves  for  their  work.  The  conscientious  instructor  has  gone 
through  three  series  of  toils  ;  he  has  labored  hard  to  learn  as  he 
would  have  his  scholars  labor,  he  has  qualified  himself  by  still  se- 
verer toil  for  his  special  duty,  and  then  comes  the  new  office  of  im- 
parting and  guiding  from  day  to  day,  —  the  hardest  labor  of  all,  be- 
cause the  fruits  of  it  do  not  at  once  appear. 

Now  into  the  labors  of  these  classes  of  teachers  and  trainers  each 
new  generation  of  the  educated  enters.  You,  my  friends,  are  debtors 


THEODORE   DWIGHT   WOOLSEY.  211 

to  the  past,  and,  indeed,  to  the  remote  past.  For  you  Aristotle 
thought  his  best  thoughts,  though  they  may  have  taken  new  shapes 
before  they  reached  your  minds  ;  for  you  the  Greek  poets  and  the 
English  of  high  renown  have  sung  their  strains  ;  for  you  art  has 
brought  to  light  its  treasures  ;  for  you  discoverers  have  ventured 
into  untrodden  seas  ;  a  thousand  forgotten  names  have  lived  and 
wrought  for  your  benefit,  without  whom,  it  .may  be,  society  would 
have  been  far  behind  its  present  point  of  advancement.  For  you, 
too,  the  teacher  of  the  present  has  spent  the  best  hours  of  his  life, 
has  thought  his  best  thought,  has  patiently  drilled  and  inculcated, 
that  you  may  enter  into  his  labors,  and  may,  if  you  will,  go  beyond 
him  in  cultivation  and  in  wisdom.  .  .  . 

The  law  of  our  race,  which  we  have  been  considering,  our  depend- 
ence on  the  past,  and  the  hope  of  progress  for  the  future,  ought  to 
carry  us  out  of  ourselves,  to  unite  us  to  our  species,  and  to  beget 
within  us  sympathy  with  man.  "  Freely  ye  have  received,  freely 
give,"  says  the  Master  —  words  which  may  be  applied  to  all  our 
blessings,  as  well  as  to  that  most  necessary  one  proceeding  directly 
from  him.  Men  have  lived  in  the  past  for  us.  In  a  world  of  igno- 
rance, thousands  have  searched  for  knowledge  as  for  hid  treasures, 
and  their  labors  have  blessed  us.  In  a  world  of  sin,  multitudes 
have  lived  and  died  to  lay  the  foundations  of  order  and  justice,  to 
reform  evils,  and  to  show  the  path  to  God. 

Unknown  benefactors  and  teachers,  as  well  as  known,  have  handed 
down  to  us  all  that  enriches  and  purifies  the  soul.  Is  it  nothing  that 
we  are  compassed  about  with  so  great  a  cloud  of  witnesses  ?  Or  is 
it  nothing  that  the  destinies  of  the  world  are  in  no  small  degree 
dependent  on  each  new  generation  ?  Or  that  the  success  of  all 
efforts  beyond  the  field  of  pure  science  grows,  in  a  great  degree,  out 
of  the  motive  with  which  they  were  begun  ?  Let  us  come,  then,  into 
sympathy  with  the  wise  and  good  of  the  past ;  let  us  pay  over  to 
others,  in  a  grateful  spirit  and  with  interest,  what  we  have  received  ; 
let  our  aims  in  life  respect  the  welfare  of  alL 


212  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


HORACE   BUSHNELL. 

Horace  Bushnell  was  born  April  14,  1802,  in  Litchfield,  Conn.,  but  at  ten  years  of  age 
went  to  the  town  of  Washington,  in  the  same  county,  where  he  was  reared.  He  was  grad- 
uated at  Yale  College  in  1827,  2nd  was,  for  a  time,  literary  editor  of  the  New  York  Journal 
of  Commerce.  In  1829  he  was  appointed  tutor  in  Yale  College,  where  he  remained  two 
years,  studying  law  and  afterwards  theology.  In  1833  ne  was  settled  in  Hartford  as  pastor 
of  the  North  Congregational  Church,  where  he  remained  until  June,  1859,  when  he  re- 
signed. His  discourses  attracted  great  attention  on  account  of  their  rare  qualities  of  style 
and  of  their  suspected  heretical  tendencies.  On  one  occasion  he  was  brought  before  the 
association  of  Congregational  ministers  to  answer  the  charge  of  invalidating  the  doctrine  of 
the  Trinity.  He  was  acquitted,  and  thereupon  published  a  work  in  which  he  maintained 
that  "human  language  is  incapable  of  expressing,  with  any  exactness,  theologic  science  ;  " 
and  that  many  of  the  religious  controversies  have  been  disputes  over  mere  words  or  phrases. 
Neither  his  tastes  nor  his  mental  traits  incline  him  to  polemical  theology  ;  not  that  he  is  not 
a  logical  reasoner,  but  his  nature  is  a  sensitive  one,  and  his  discourses  all  show  strong  poetic 
feeling,  and  a  tendency  to  illustrate  spiritual  truth  by  natural  images  and  analogies,  rather 
than  to  define  it  in  exact  formulas  by  sharp  mathematical  lines.  It  will  be  difficult  to  find 
in  the  sermons  of  any  modern  author  so  many  passages  of  moral  and  intellectual  beauty  as 
Dr.  Bushnell's  discourses  furnish.  The  current  of  his  thought  is  strong,  but  not  dogmatic  ; 
his  piety  is  evidently  the  mainspring  of  his  life,  but  it  has  no  tinge  of  asceticism  ;  his  imagi- 
nation is  his  strongest  intellectual  faculty,  but  it  is  made  subservient  to  the  noblest  uses. 

Dr.  Bushnell  is  a  man  of  unpretending  and  natural  manners,  of  great  energy,  and  with  a 
'certain  decision  that  belongs  to  the  leaders  of  men.  His  genius  is  exemplified  in  conversa- 
tion as  well  as  in  his  works,  and  he  is  among  the  most  active  and  public  spirited  of  citizens. 
The  beautiful  park  in  Hartford  was  secured,  in  a  great  measure,  by  his  efforts. 

We  give  a  list  of  his  works:  Christian  Nurture,  1847;  God  in  Christ,  1849;  Christ  in 
Theology,  1851;  Sermons  for  the  New  Life,  1858;  Nature  and  the  Supernatural,  1858; 
Christ  and  his  Salvation,  1864  ;  Work  and  Play,  1864  ;  The  Vicarious  Sacrifice,  1866 ; 
Moral  Uses  of  Dark  Things,  1868.  In  addition  to  these  he  has  printed  essays  and  ad- 
dresses upon  a  wide  range  of  topics,  principally  in  the  New  Englander. 

He  visited  Europe  in  1845,  and  in  parts  of  1856-7  he  was  in  California. 

The  extracts  here  given  are  from  his  last  volume  of  sermons  —  sermons  so  full  of  beauty 
and  of  suggestive  thought  as  to  make  the  task  of  selection  unusually  difficult. 

[From  Moral  Uses  of  Dark  Things.] 
THE   USES   OF   OBLIVION. 

IT  will  be  obvious  to  any  one  at  a  glance,  that  God  has  not  made 
any  such  thing  as  a  complete  remembrance  of  past  ages  possible. 
He  writes  oblivion  against  all  but  a  few  names  and  things,  and  emp- 
ties the  world  to  give  freer  space  for  what  is  to  come.  No  tongue 
could  recite  the  whole  vast  story  if  it  were  known,  the  world  could 
not  contain  the  books  if  it  were  written,  and  no  mind,  reading  the 
story,  could  give  it  possible  harbor.  Besides,  there  are  things  in  the 
past  which  no  tradition  can  accurately  carry,  and  no  words  represent. 
Who  that  will  untwist  the  subtle  motives  of  action,  can  do  it  far 
enough  to  make  out  anything  better  than  a  tolerable  fiction  ?  Who 
can  paint  a  great  soul's  passion,  as  that  passion,  looked  upon,  painted 


HORACE   BUSHNELL.  213 

itself?  To  come  down  to  things  more  humble,  yet  by  no  means 
less  significant,  by  what  words  can  any  one  find  how  to  set  forth  a 
gait  or  a  voice  ?  And  yet  if  I  could  simply  see  the  back  of  Cato 
jogging  out  a-field,  or  hear  one  sentence  spoken  by  Caesar's  voice,  it 
really  seems  to  me  I  should  get  a  better  knowledge  of  either,  from 
that  single  token,  than  I  have  gotten  yet  from  all  other  sources,  so 
very  impotent  are  words  to  reproduce,  or  keep  in  impression  the 
facts  and  men  of  history.  We  have  a  way  of  speaking,  in  which  we 
congratulate  ourselves  on  the  score  of  a  distinction  between  what 
are  called  the  unhistoric  and  historic  ages.  The  unhistoric,  we 
fancy,  make  no  history,  because  they  have  no  written  language. 
But  having  such  a  gift,  with  paper  to  receive  the  record  of  it,  and 
types  to  multiply  that  record,  and  libraries  to  keep  it,  and,  back  of 
all,  a  body  of  learned  scribes,  who  are  skilled  in  writing  history  as 
one  of  the  elegant  arts,  we  conclude  that  now  the  historic  age  has 
come. 

We  do  not  perceive  that,  in  just  this  manner,  we  are  going  to  over- 
write history,  and  write  so  much  of  it  that  we  shall  really  have  none. 
If  we  had  the  whole  world's  history  written  out  in  such  detail  of  art, 
we  could  not  even  make  anything  of  it  —  the  historic  shelf  of  our 
library  would  girdle  the  world.  What,  then,  will  our  written  history 
be  to  us,  after  it  has  gotten  fifty  millions  of  years  into  its  record  ? 
for  we  must  not  forget  that  the  age  we  live  in  is  but  the  world's 
early  morning.  Calling  it  the  historic  age,  then,  what  are  we  doing 
in  it  but  writing  in  oblivion,  as  the  unhistoric  age  took  it  without 
writing  at  all  ?  .  .  . 

It  will  be  seen  that  we  do  not  lose  our  benefit  in  the  past  ages 
because  we  lose  the  remembrance  of  their  acts  and  persons.  Do 
the  vegetable  growths  repine  or  sicken  because  they  cannot  remem- 
ber the  growths  of  the  previous  centuries  ?  Is  it  not  enough  that 
the  very  soil  that  feeds  them  is  fertilized  by  the  waste  of  so  many 
generations  mouldering  in  it  ?  The  principal  and  best  fruits  of  the 
past  ages  come  down  to  us  even  when  their  names  do  not.  If  they 
wrought  out  great  inventions,  these  will  live  without  a  history ;  if 
they  unfolded  great  principles  of  society  and  duty,  great  principles 
do  not  die  ;  if  they  brought  their  nation  forward  into  power  and  a 
better  civilization,  the  advances  made  are  none  the  less  real  that 
their  authors  are  forgotten.  Their  family  spirit  passed  into  their 
family,  and  passes  down  with  it.  Their  manners,  and  maxims,  and 
ideas  flavored  their  children,  then,  after  them,  their  children's  chil- 
dren, and  so  more  truly  live  than  they  would  in  a  book.  .  .  . 


214       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

We  all  recognize  it  as  the  wondrous  felicity  of  certain  characters 
that  we  know  so  little  about  them,  and  yet  seem  to  know  so  much, 
and  that  of  a  type  so  impressive.  We  say  that  we  wish  it  were 
possible  to  know  more,  which  is  very  nearly  equivalent,  not  un- 
likely, if  we  could  see  it,  to  wishing  that  we  knew  less.  For  if 
their  full  history  were  written,  so  as  to  answer  all  inquiries,  and 
bring  all  circumstances  into  light,  the  additions  made  would  rather 
stale  and  flatten  the  great  character  than  raise  it ;  for  one  must 
be  a  singularly  perfect  man  to  be  lifted  in  majesty  by  picking  up  the 
crumbs  and  saving  the  small  items  of  his  story.  What  greater 
injury,  in  general,  can  befall  a  character  than  to  have  its  story  made 
up  in  such  nice  precision  as  exactly  to  meet  the  little  curiosities 
of  little  minds  ?  To  be  so  perfectly  known  argues  a  sad  want  of 
merit,  and,  if  the  perfect  story  is  but  fiction,  amounts  to  almost  a 
scandal.  If  Hamlet  were  known  as  perfectly  as  some  of  the  critics 
will  show  when  they  make  out  his  story,  he  would  be  Hamlet  no 
longer.  If  Joan  of  Arc,  not  flitting  into  history  and  out  again,  had 
come  abroad  duly  certificated,  with  the  facts  of  her  biography  regu- 
larly made  up,  and  all  her  supposed  visitations,  revelations,  debates, 
bosom  struggles,  and  motives  accurately  detailed,  she  would  only 
seem  to  have  been  a  case  for  the  hospital,  and  would,  in  fact,  have 
been  sent  to  the  hospital  before  she  had  reached  the  field.  She 
struck,  she  won  the  post  of  leadership,  as  in  God's  mission,  because 
she  spoke  out  of  mystery,  and  took  the  faith  of  her  time  by  the 
spell  she  wrought  in  its  imagination.  And  she  wins  a  place  with  us 
in  the  same  manner,  compelling  us  to  supplement  her  almost  un- 
known story  by  the  faiths  and  admirations  challenged  by  the  won- 
drous, seemingly  divine,  force  of  her  action,  And  therefore  it  is,  I 
conceive,  that  when  God  would  paint,  or  have  painted,  some  highest, 
grandest  miracle  of  character,  setting  it  forth  in  a  way  to  have  its 
greatest  power  of  impression,  he  makes  large  use  of  oblivion,  brush- 
ing out  and  away  all  the  trivialities  and  petty  cumberings  of  the 
story.  Let  the  blank  spaces  be  large  enough  to  give  imagination 
play,  and,  for  this,  let  as  much  be  forgotten  as  can  be,  arid  save  the 
few  grand  strokes  that  are  to  be  the  determining  lines  of  the  pic- 
ture ;  let  the  story  be  so  scantily  told  that  we  shall  often  wonder, 
and  sometimes  even  sigh,  that  we  have  so  little  of  it.  Only  so 
could  a  real  gospel  be  written.  What  we  call  our  gospel  is  so  writ- 
ten, and  no  such  life  as  that  of  a  Christ  could  be  otherwise  given  to 
the  world.  A  full-written,  circumstantial  biography  would  be  a  mor- 
tal suffocation  of  his  power.  There  was  no  way  but  to  let  oblivion 


HORACE    BUSHNELL.  215 

compose  a  good  part  of  the  story.  And  if  we  cannot  imagine  obliv- 
ion to  be  inspired,  we  can  perceive  it  to  be  one  of  the  grandest  of  all 
evidences  of  inspiration  in  the  writers,  that  they  could  not  stoop  to 
over-write  and  muddle  their  story  by  letting  their  foolish  admirations 
pack  it  full  of  detail.  How  very  natural  would  it  have  been  to  write 
a  particular  account  of  the  infancy  of  Jesus,  and  of  the  whole  thirty 
years  preceding  his  ministry,  telling  how  he  grew,  and  looked,  and 
acted,  and  what  the  people  thought  of  him,  calling  it,  perhaps,  the 
Volume  I.  of  his  biography.  How  often  have  we  regretted  this 
missing  picture,  and  longed  to  have  had  it  supplied;  with  how 
much  real  wisdom  can  we  probably  see  in  that  'foolish  gospel  of  the 
infancy  which  undertook  afterwards  to  supply  it.  How  easily  could 
it  have  been  given  by  any  one  of  the  evangelists.  And  yet  their 
whole  account  of  the  infancy  is  made  up  in  a  few  brief  sentences. 
John,  the  apostle,  had  Mary,  the  mother,  with  him  we  know  not  how 
many  years,  and  she  told  the  story  over,  how  tenderly,  how  many 
times.  He  was  getting  old,  too,  when  he  wrote  his  gospel,  and  old 
men  are  proverbially  garrulous,  and  yet  he  says  not  one  word  of  the 
infancy,  or  gives  any  faintest  allusion  to  Mary's  conversations. 
No ;  he  has  something  great  to  record  here,  and  something  which 
can  be  fitly  honored  only  in  a  few  bold  strokes  of  narrative,  such  as 
will  even  make  the  story  idealize  itself  more  vividly  than  words  can 
describe  it.  Why  should  he  pile  it  with  cargoes  of  circumstance, 
when  the  world  itself  could  not  contain  the  books,  and  Christ  him- 
self would  be  written  out  of  his  divinity  by  an  itemizing  gospel  that 
proposes  to  enhance  his  record.  On  this  principle  all  the  gospels 
were  written. 


OF   WINTER. 

IT  is  most  remarkable  that  we  have,  in  our  winter,  a  whole  season 
of  the  year  that  bears  a  look  of  unbenignity.  We  cannot  say  or 
think  that  God  is  cold  here  to  his  children,  but  no  reverence  can  hide 
it  from  u>*,  in  these  winter  months  of  the  year,  that  his  physical  treat- 
ment is  fearfully  chill  and  severe.  A  pitiless,  stern  aspect  rests  upon 
the  world.  The  forests  stand  brown  and  bare.  There  is  no  song 
in  their  tops  ;  they  only  roar  and  crackle  to  the  blast  in  their  frozen 
branches.  Lake  and  river  bellow  to  the  winds  afar,  as  if  monsters, 
shut  under  by  the  freezing,  were  tearing  to  be  free.  The  world's  body 
is  not  dressed,  but  shrouded  rather,  looking  all  the  colder  that  we 
see  it  in  a  laying  out  of  white,  unflushed  by  mortal  sympathy.  God's 


2l6  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

tenderness  appears  to  be  quite  shut  away,  or  shut  in,  by  his  cold. 
The  animals  stand  crouching  in  their  yards,  or  under  copse  or  wall, 
holding  their  heads  low  to  the  storm,  as  if  missing  God's  pity  in  it. 
The  little  child,  whom  Christ  would  have  taken  up  so  fondly  in  his 
arms,  gets  stalled  in  the  snows,  and,  when  his  hands  are  freezing, 
screams  imploringly  for  help  ;  but  help  is  nowhere,  and  God's  unpity- 
ing  cold  goes  on  to  freeze  him  as  remorselessly  as  if  he  were  a  man. 
The  traveller  is  overtaken  at  night  on  the  prairie  by  a  howling,  wildly 
driving  storm  ;  all  trace  of  a  road  is  gone  ;  his  point  of  direction  is 
lost,  and  he  drives  still  on,  still  round  and  round,  passing  more  than 
once  quite  near  the  light  which  his  wife  has  set  in  her  window.  She 
is  praying  that  God  will  spare  him  ;  he  himself  is  praying  that  God 
will  spare  him  for  her  dear  sake  and  his  children's  ;  but  it  is  as  if 
the  prayers  themselves  were  falling  under  the  snow.  Two  days 
afterwards  he  and  his  exhausted  team  are  found  upright  and  stiff 
in  a  snow-bed  miles  away. 

Physically  speaking,  this  is  the  picture  of  God's  winter.  Does 
it  represent  him  ?  Certainly  it  does  in  some  true  sense,  though 
not  in  any  such  general  and  complete  sense  as  to  yield  a  just 
conception  of  him.  Many  of  God's  doings  and  appointments  do 
not  represent  his  feeling  or  disposition,  but  they  only  represent 
the  more  truly  his  counsel,  his  purpose,  his  ends  of  discipline, 
his  modes  of  compelling  industry,  begetting  reflection,  setting 
fast  habits  of  attention,  consolidating  attributes  of  strength,  that 
are  wanted  to  compose  a  manly  character. 

In  this  manner  we  shall  see  that  God  is  represented  rather  by 
the  moral  uses  of  winter,  than  by  winter  itself.  '  Turning  our 
thoughts  in  this  direction,  then,  we  shall  find  enough  to  satisfy 
us  ;  nay,  we  shall  see  the  benignity  of  God  unfolded  here,  if  not 
more  tenderly,  yet  more  convincingly,  than  in  any  of  the  softer  sea- 
sons of  the  year.  .  .  . 

Many  think  it  a  great  misfortune  that  our  excellent  fathers  did  not 
push  their  way  farther  south,  at  their  landing,  and  seek  out  a  softer 
and  more  genial  clime.  There  is  no  greater  folly,  as  facts  most  con- 
clusively show.  If  there  be  any  people  on  earth  who  have  reason  to 
accuse  their  climate,  it  is  they  who  enjoy  a  perennial  season  of 
growth  and  verdure,  and  a  soft  and  sunny  sky  throughout  the  year. 
There  it  is  that  mind  also  is  soft,  enervated  by  ease  and  luxury. 
There  it  is  that  eternity  offers  beauty  and  bloom  to  minds  that  can- 
not be  moved  by  their  attraction,  and  virtue  by  her  stern  require- 
ments to  souls  too  much  relaxed  by  habits  of  ease  and  passion,  to  be 


MARK    HOPKINS.  2 1/ 

guided  by  sentiments  of  high  responsibility.  After  all,  the  best  fa- 
vors of  God  are  those  which  take  on  shapes  of  rigor  and  necessity, 
and  prepare  the  strongest  hunger  in  us  for  the  good  of  a  world  invis- 
ible. The  advantages  of  the  body  are  poor  and  mean  compared 
with  the  advantages  of  character  and  religion.  Understanding  thus 
our  want,  we  shall  thank  God  most  for  the  frosts,  and  the  snows,  and 
the  sleet,  and  the  bleak  winds,  and  the  raw,  dank  seasons  inter- 
spacing the  cold.  We  shall  be  like  the  trees,  coated  in  gems  of  ice 
and  glittering  in  thankfulness  before  him.  For  the  winter  of  the 
body  is,  in  some  very  true  sense,  the  summer  of  the  mind.  What 
softer  clime,  then,  shall  the  sons  of  New  England  envy  —  wading 
to  their  temples  on  the  hills  through  wintery  snows,  gathered  at  their 
firesides  in  domestic  mutualities  and  pleasures,  trained  to  close 
economy  and  patient  industry  by  the  even  balance  of  growth  and 
expenditure,  rugged  in  their  virtues  as  in  their  religious  convictions, 
and  knowing  how  to  gild  the  rigors  of  time  with  glories  of  future 
expectation  ?  Whom,  again  we  ask,  of  all  that  bask  in  the  warmth 
of  skies  more  genial,  have  they  to  envy  ? 


MARK  HOPKINS. 

Mark  Hopkins  was  born  in  Stockbridge,  Mass.,  February  4,  1802.  He  received  his  edu- 
cation at  Williams  College,  where  he  was  subsequently  a  tutor.  He  studied  medicine,  and, 
after  taking  his  degree,  removed  to  New  York  city,  and  commenced  practice.  In  1830  he 
returned  to  Williams  as  professor  of  moral  philosophy  and  rhetoric,  and  in  1836  was  chosen 
president  of  the  college,  a  position  which  he  held  until  1872. 

Among  his  published  works  are,  Lectures  on  the  Evidences  of  Christianity  (1846),  Mis- 
cellaneous Essays  and  Discourses  (1847),  Lectures  on  Moral  Science  (1862),  Love  as  Law, 
and  the  Law  of  Love  (1863),  and  Baccalaureate  Sermons  and  Occasional  Discourses. 

Dr.  Hopkins  is  a  man  of  remarkable  vigor,  and  combines  high  intellectual  qualities  with 
great  practical  and  administrative  talents.  That  Williams  College  has  maintained  so  high 
a  rank  among  its  contemporaries,  while  its  income  has  been  so  small  compared  with  that  of 
Harvard  or  Yale,  is,  in  a  great  measure,  owing  to  his  wise  management  and  to  the  confi- 
dence felt  in  his  character,  and  in  his  high  aims  for  the  institution. 

[From  an  Oration,  delivered  December  22,  1853.] 
THE   LAW   OF   MORAL   AND   INTELLECTUAL  INFLUENCE. 

GOD  has  so  constituted  this  world,  and,  doubtless,  the  universe, 
that  he  who  aims  at  and  secures  the  highest  good  in  any  department 
or  sphere,  will  also  incidentally,  and  so  best,  secure  the  greatest 
amount  of  subordinate  good.  This  is  the  general  law,  and  whatever 
exceptions  to  it  there  may  seem  to  be  are  accidental  and  temporary. 


2l8       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

In  this  principle  lies  the  secret  of  the  unconscious  power  wielded  by 
our  fathers. 

Upon  the  general  illustration  of  a  proposition  so  broad  as  this,  we 
cannot  now  enter.  It  must  suffice  to  notice  its  application  in  organic 
systems,  where  there  is  mutual  relation  and  interaction  of  parts.  In 
these,  that  which  is  highest  is  indeed  formed  by  the  lower,  but  when 
formed  it  reacts  upon  that  lower,  and  becomes  necessary  to  its  per- 
fection. Thus  the  brain,  the  highest  and  most  central  part  of  the 
body,  is  that  to  which  all  the  other  parts  are  subordinate  ;  but  this 
reacts,  and  ministers  a  pervading  and  vital  influence  to  every  inferior 
part,  essential  both  to  their  functions  and  growth,  and  the  perfection 
of  the  brain  will  both  imply  and  secure  that  of  every  inferior  part. 

So  in  the  tree.  For  the  purposes  of  its  own  growth  and  well 
being,  it  forms  the  leaves  highest  and  last ;  but  it  is  only  as  these 
expand  freely  in  the  air  and  sunlight  that  the. roots  will  strike  them- 
selves deepest,  and  the  trunk  be  enlarged,  and  the  vitality  prolonged. 
The  tree  grows  from  its  top.  And  here  is  the  model  of  political  and 
social  growth.  Society  is  built  up  like  an  individual.  Like  a  tree, 
it  grows  from  its  top.  Let  the  nutritive  and  circulatory  movements 
of  society  flow  freely  on  and  up  to  the  quickening  and  expansion  of 
an  intellectual  life,  and  that  will  so  react  as  we  see  it  doing  in  our 
day,  by  the  application  of  science  to  art,  as  to  give  to  the  material 
interests  themselves  a  range  and  power  entirely  unknown  before. 
And  then  let  the  top  still  expand  into  the  higher  air  and  purer  light 
of  beauty,  and  of  moral  and  religious  truth,  and  in  every  fibre  at  the 
root  will  be  felt  the  upward  movement ;  and  there  will  descend  nutri- 
tive power  and  regulative  principles,  causing  a  growth  that  will  defy 
the  touch  of  time,  that  time  will  only  strengthen  and  enlarge.  The 
elaborated  wisdom  of  sages  will  descend  and  diffuse  itself  into  all  the 
currents  of  thought,  and  reach  the  springs  and  motives  of  action,  and 
will  eliminate  evils  by  those  gradual  organic  revolutions  which  come 
on  like  the  tide,  but  which  no  human  power  can  set  back. 

The  difficulty  with  past  civilizations  has  been  that  they  did  not 
form  an  adequate  top.  The  products  of  the  physical  and  intellectual 
life  circulated  in  and  for  themselves,  and  hence  plethora,  stagnation, 
debility,  spasms,  and  dissolution.  This  is  the  stereotyped  round  in 
which  families  and  nations  perish  through  prosperity.  But  if  these 
products  might  flow  on  and  up,  if  the  affections  might  distribute 
them  rather  than  appetite,  benevolence  rather  than  ostentation,  and 
principle  rather  than  fashion  and  caprice  ;  if  they  might  minister  to 
a  pure  and  spiritual  religion,  and  be  controlled  and  distributed  by 


MARK    HOPKINS. 

that,  it  is  not  foi  the  imagination  to  depict  the  beauty  and  blessed- 
ness that  would  pervade  society. 

Particularly  do  we  believe  that  there  would  spring  from  this  a 
higher  culture  of  all  that  pertains  to  beauty,  and  only  from  this  a 
permanent  civil  liberty. 

There  has  been  an  impression  that  the  virtues  of  our  fathers  were 
stern  and  repulsive  of  beauty.  And  so  is  the  mountain-top  stern, 
where  the  storms  wrestle,  and  the  snow  abides,  and  the  ice  congeals ; 
but  from  that  mountain-top  conies  the  beauty  that  looks  up  at  its 
base,  and  that  skirts  the  stream  on  its  long  way  to  the  ocean.  So 
will  the  sterner  virtues  always  melt  into  beauty  when  the  storms  and 
cold,  with  which  they  have  to  contend,  have  passed  away.  Beauty 
is  of  God,  and  it  cannot  be  that  he  who  has  woven  the  web  of  light 
in  its  colors,  and  so  wrought  its  golden  threads  into  the  tissue  of 
nature,  who  paints  the  flower,  and  unfurls  the  banner  of  sunset, 
should  not  delight  in  all  beauty,  and  that  it  should  not  proceed  from 
all  godlikeness.  We  believe,  indeed,  that  only  as  there  are  with 
God  himself,  the  high  and  stern  mountains  of  a  holiness  and  justice 
unapproachable,  does  there  proceed  from  him  the  smile  that  makes 
the  violet  glad.  Neither  Christ  nor  his  apostles  concerned  them- 
selves with  art  ;  they  did  not  even  speak  of  it.  The  struggle  with 
moral  evil  was  too  earnest.  Let  this  be  overcome,  and  the  alliance 
between  the  arts  and  the  baser  passions  dissolved,  and  there  would 
spring  up  in  connection  with  the  industry,  and  science,  and  wealth 
that  religion  would  produce,  a  diffused  beauty  in  nature  and  in  art 
of  which  we  have  now  no  conception.  .  .  . 

The  principles  that  were  cabined  in  the  Mayflower,  —  the  same 
once  enclosed  by  the  walls  of  an  upper  chamber  in  Jerusalem,  —  and 
that  two  hundred  and  thirty-three  years  ago  this  day,  were  first 
breathed  into  the  atmosphere  of  this  continent  from  Plymouth  Rock, 
have  seemed  to  abide  in  it  there  as  a  mighty  spell,  and  have  so  dif- 
fused and  mingled  themselves  with  it  everywhere,  that  the  whole 
people  breathe  them  in  as  with  the  very  breath  of  their  life,'  and  so 
that  no  chemistry  of  tyranny,  civil  or  ecclesiastical,  can  ever  get 
them  out.  They  were  never  as  strong  as  they  are  to-day.  They 
make  little  show  of  unity  by  great  convocations.  They  affect  no 
pomp,  and  provide  no  prizes  for  a  worldly  ambition.  They  are  in 
the  world  under  the  same  aspect  and  conditions  as  Christ  himself 
was  — as  spiritual  Christianity,  and  truth,  and  civil  liberty  have 
always  been.  Wealth  does  not  gravitate  towards  them  ;  fashion  has 
no  affinity  for  them.  The  votaries  of  these  more  often  detach  them- 


22O       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

selves  and  float  to  other  centres.  In  their  simplicity  they  stand, 
like  the  heavens,  unpropped  by  visible  pillars.  They  seem,  if  not 
born,  yet,  as  it  were,  born  again  for  this  continent  and  this  age,  and 
for  that  oceanic  breadth  and  depth  of  movement  which  is  clearly  be- 
fore society  and  the  church.  They  ally  themselves  with  all  that  is 
peculiar  in  our  free  institutions,  with  all  that  is  most  simple  and 
grand  in  the  works  of  God,  with  all  that  is  free  and  mighty  in  the 
movements  of  the  elements,  with  all  that  is  comprehensive  in  charity, 
and  great  in  effort  and  self-sacrifice. 


LYDIA  MARIA    CHILD. 

Lydia  Maria  Child,  daughter  of  David  Francis,  was  born  in  Medford,  Mass.,  February 
n,  1802.  Her  first  book,  a  story  of  the  early  settlement  of  the  country,  entitled  Hobomok, 
was  published  in  1824.  The  next  year  appeared  The  Rebels,  a  Tale  of  the  Revolution. 
She  was  married,  in  1828,  to  David  Lee  Child,  an  editor  and  author  of  some  note.  She  was 
an  advocate  of  the  anti-slavery  cause  in  its  early  and  unpopular  days,  and  wrote  several 
volumes  upon  the  morals  of  the  question.  In  1836  she  published  a  romance,  entitled  Philo- 
thea ;  a  striking  and  beautiful  picture  of  Athenian  society  in  the  time  of  Pericles.  She  has 
written  a  great  number  of  stories  for  young  people,  in  which  she  has  displayed  a  remarkable 
faculty  to  interest  and  instruct.  Excepting  Hans  Christian  Andersen,  she  is  almost  without 
a  rival  in  this  field.  She  is  the  author  of  a  work  on  the  Condition  of  Women  in  different 
Ages  of  the  World  ;  also  of  a  philosophical  treatise,  in  three  volumes,  entitled  The  Progress 
of  Religious  Ideas.  She  has  written  a  Life  of  Isaac  T.  Hopper,  a  benevolent  Friend. 
Letters  from  New  York  is  a  volume  containing  some  of  her  contributions  to  the  Anti- Slavery 
Standard. 

Mrs.  Child  is  a  woman  of  strong  and  generous  impulses,  with  a  lively  sense  of  beauty, 
especially  fond  of  music,  and  of  tracing  fanciful  analogies  between  its  subtile  suggestions  and 
the  sister  arts,  believing  in  absolute  truth  and  justice,  but  somewhat  too  enthusiastic  to 
preserve  always  the  just  balance  of  judgment.  Her  works  apparently  refle'ct  her  own  nature, 
and  bring  the  reader  and  author  face  to  face.  In  the  haste  of  composition  there  are  occa- 
sional slips,  and  among  so  many  works  there  is  not  a  uniform  standard  of  merit ;  still 
there  are  few  authors  that  have  added  so  much  to  the  pleasure  and  to  the  moral  culture 
of  our  generation.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  a  revised  edition  of  her  works  may  be  published, 
as  many  of  them  are  now  out  of  print. 

In  the  Fable  for  Critics,  there  is  a  playful  passage  upon  this  author,  under  the  name  of 
Philothea,  which  is,  on  the  whole,  a  warm  tribute  to  her  noble  qualities.  We  can  give  only 
the  concluding  lines  :  — 

"  Yes,  a  great  soul  is  hers,  one  that  dares  to  go  in 
To  the  prison,  the  slave-hut,  the  alleys  of  sin, 
And  to  bring  into  each,  or  to  find  there,  some  line 
Of  the  never  completely  out-trampled  divine  ; 
If  her  heart  at  high  floods  swamps  her  brain  now  and  then, 
'Tis  but  richer  for  that  when  the  tide  ebbs  again ; 
As,  after  old  Nile  has  subsided,  his  plain 
Overflows  with  a  second  broad  deluge  of  grain. 
What  a  wealth  would  it  bring  to  the  narrow  and  sour 
Could  they  be  as  a  Child  but  for  one  little  hour  I  " 


LYDIA    MARIA    CHILD.  221 

[From  Letters  from  New  York.] 
PROGRESS   OF   MORAL  IDEAS. 

March  29,  1844. 

THERE  have  always  been  a  large  class  of  thinkers  who  deny  that 
the  world  makes  any  progress.  They  say  we  move  in  a  circle  ; 
that  evils  are  never  conquered,  but  only  change  their  forms.  In 
proof  of  this  doctrine,  they  remind  us  that  the  many  are  now  as 
effectually  kept  in  subjection  to  the  few,  by  commercial  fraud  and 
diplomatic  cunning,  as  they  once  were  by  sword  and  battle-axe. 
This  class  of  reasoners  are  uncomfortable  to  the  hopeful  soul,  the 
more  so  because  they  can  easily  bring  forward  an  array  of  facts,  from 
which,  in  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  it  is  impossible  to  evolve  the 
good  and  evil  separately,  to  weigh  them  accurately,  and  justly  de- 
termine the  results  of  each  on  the  whole  destiny  of  man.  These 
unbelievers  point  to  the  past,  whose  records  are  deeply  graven,  and 
seen  of  all  men,  though  they  relate  only  to  the  externals  of  human 
history  ;  while  those  who  believe  in  perpetual  progress  found  their 
faith  mainly  on  the  inward  growth  and  unwritten  history  of  the 
soul.  They  see  within  all  events  a  spiritual  essence,  subtle,  expan- 
sive, and  noiseless  as  light,  and  from  the  roseate  gleam  resting 
on  the  horizon's  edge,  they  predict  that  the  sun  will  rise  to  its 
zenith,  and  veil  the  whole  earth  in  transfigured  glory. 

It  is  the  mission  of  the  prophet  to  announce,  rather  than  to 
prove  ;  yet  facts  are  not  wanting  to  prove  that  mankind  have  made 
progress.  Experience  is  not  always  at  discord  with  hope  ;  perhaps 
it  is  never  so,  if  we  could  read  history  as  the  Omniscient  reads  it. 
Doubtless  the  world  does  move  in  circles,  and  good  and  evil,  re- 
produced in  new  forms,  bear  a  continual  check-and-balance  relation 
to  each  other.  But  the  circles  in  which  we  move  rise  in  a  perpet- 
ually ascending  series,  and  evil  will  finally  be  overcome  with  good. 
The  very  fierceness  of  the  conflict  shows  that  this  consummation  is 
approaching.  There  never  was  a  time  when  good  and  evil,  truth 
and  falsehood,  were  at  work  with  such  miraculous  activity.  To 
those  who  look  on  the  surface,  it  may  seem  as  if  the  evil  and  false 
were  gaining  the  victory,  because  the  evil  and  the  false  are  always 
more  violent  and  tumultuous  than  the  good  and  true.  The  tor- 
nado blusters,  and  the  atmosphere  is  still,  but  the  atmosphere  pro- 
duces and  sustains  a  thousand  fold  more  than  the  tornado  destroys. 
The  good  and  the  true  work  for  eternity  in  a  golden  silence. 

The  very  uproar  of  evil,  at  the  present  time,  is  full  of  promise,  for 


222  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

all  evil  must  be  made  manifest,  that  it  may  be  cured.  To  this  end 
divine  Providence  is  continually  exerted,  both  in  the  material  and  the 
spiritual  world.  If  the  right  proportions  of  the  atmosphere  are  dis- 
turbed, the  discord  manifests  in  thunder  and  lightning,  and  thus  is 
harmony  restored.  To  the  superstitious  it  sounds  like  the  voice  of 
wrath,  but  it  is  only  universal  love  restoring  order  to  the  elements. 

November  7,  1844. 

A  FRENCH  writer  describes  November  as  "  the  month  in  which 
Englishmen  hang  and  drown  themselves."  No  wonder  they  are 
desperate  when  they  have  an  almost  permanent  fog  superadded  to 
the  usual  gloomy  accompaniments  of  retreating  summer.  In  early 
life  I  loved  scenes  that  were  tinged  with  sadness,  because  they  in- 
vited to  repose  the  exuberant  gayety  of  my  own  spirit. 

"  In  youth  we  love  the  darksome  lawn, 

Brushed  by  the  owlet's  wing  ; 
Then  twilight  is  preferred  to  dawn, 
And  autumn  to  the  spring. 

"  Sad  fancies  do  we  then  affect, 
In  luxury  of  disrespect 
To  our  own  prodigal  excess 
Of  too  familiar  happiness." 

But  now,  alas  !  I  have  no  joyousness  to  spare,  and  I  would  fain  bor- 
row from  the  outward  that  radiance  which  no  longer  superabounds 
within. 

I  felt  this  oppressively  the  other  day,  when  I  went  over  to  Staten 
Island.  Here  and  there,  in  the  desolate  fields,  a  long  withered  leaf 
fluttered  on  some  dried  cornstalk,  standing  up  like  Memory  in  the 
lone  stubble-field  of  the  Past,  where  once  had  been  the  green  bud- 
ding hopes  and  the  golden  harvests  of  fruition.  The  woods,  which 
I  had  seen  in  the  young  leafiness  of  June,  in  the  verdant  strength 
of  summer,  and  in  their  rich  autumnal  robe,  were  now  scantily 
dressed  in  most  dismal  brown.  Some  of  the  trees  had  dropped  the 
decaying  vesture,  and  stood  in  distinct  relief  against  the  cold,  gray 
sky.  But  I  found  pleasure  in  their  unclothed  beauty,  its  character 
was  so  various.  The  boughs  of  no  two  trees  ever  have  the  same 
arrangements.  Nature  always  produces  individuals;  she  never 
produces  classes.  Man  is  at  war  with  her  laws  when  he  seeks  to 
arrange  opinions  into  classes,  under  the  name  of  sects,  or  employ- 
ments into  classes  on  account  of  sex,  color,  or  condition, 


LYDIA   MARIA    CHILD.  223 

The  woods  of  Staten  Island  are  very  beautiful  in  their  infinitely 
various  shading,  from  the  deepest  to  the  liveliest  green.  But  neither 
here  nor  anywhere  else  in  the  State  of  New  York  have  I  seen  such 
a  noble  growth  of  trees  as  in  New  England.  When  I  think  of  the 
magnificent  elms  of  Northampton  and  Springfield,  the  kings  of  the 
forest  here  dwindle  into  mere  dwarfs  in  comparison.  This  slight 
association  of  thought  brought  vividly  before  my  inward  eye  the  pic- 
turesque valley  of  the  Connecticut.  I  saw  Mount  Tom  looking  at 
me  gray  and  cold  in  the  distance.  I  saw  old  Holyoke  in  various 
garbs  ;  fantastic,  grand,  or  lovely,  as  mists,  cloud-shadows,  storm,  or 
sunlight  cradled  themselves  on  his  rugged  breast.  There  always 
seemed  to  me  something  peculiarly  Christian  in  the  character  of 
mountain  scenery,  forever  pointing  upward,  rising  with  such  serene 
elevation  above  the  earth,  and  overlooking  the  whole  with  such  all- 
embracing  vision.  In  the  groves  I  think  of  Dryads,  by  the  ocean 
I  have  many  fancies  of  Nereids  and  Tritons,  but  never  do  I 
think  of 

"Those  lightsome  foot  maids, 
The  Oreads,  that  frequent  the  lifted  mountains." 

There  is  something  in  the  quiet  grandeur  of  the  everlasting  hills 
that  rises  above  the  classic  into  the  holy. 

Their  presence  could  never  quite  reconcile  me  to  the  absence  of 
the  sea.  My  soul  always  yearns  for  that  great  type  of  power  and 
freedom  ;  its  ever-recurring  tides  chained  by  the  law  of  Necessity, 
its  mighty  and  restless  waves  fighting  with  the  strength  and  energy 
of  Free  Will  —  the  fierce  old  conflict  that  keeps  our  nature  forever 
striving  and  forever  bound  ;  forever  one  hand  winged  and  the  other 
chained. 

But  the  mountains  remind  us  of  no  such  battles.  They  raise  us 
to  the  region  where  necessity  and  will  are  one.  Calmly  they  breathe 
into  us  the  religious  sentiment,  and  we  receive  it  in  unconscious 
quietude  ;  like  Wordsworth's  shepherd,  who 

"Had  early  learned 

To  reverence  the  volume  which  displays 
The  mystery,  the  life  which  cannot  die  ; 
But  in  the  mountains  did  he  feet  his  faith. 
There  did  he  see  the  writing.     All  things  there 
Breathed  immortality,  revolving  life  ; 
There  littleness  was  not :  and  the  least  things 
Seemed  infinite." 

Filled  with  such  emotions,  I  greet  the  mountains  with  reverent 
love  when  I  enter  Massachusetts  from  the  west,  and  see  them  rising 


224  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

up  all  round  the  horizon,  in  undulating  lines,  as  if  left  there  by  re- 
treating waves.  At  every  turn  of  the  road  they  tower  before  you, 
veiled  in  the  blue  mist  of  distance.  Look  which  way  you  will,  "  you 
cannot  get  shut  of  them,"  as  New  Yorkers  say.  In  this  respect  they 
have  often  reminded  me  of  remarkably  clear  visions  of  inward  light, 
guiding  me  in  my  spiritual  pilgrimage  through  perilous  seasons  of 
doubt  and  conflict  ;  so  high  above  my  own  unaided  intellectual  per- 
ceptions, that  they  served  not  merely  as  a  candle  for  the  present 
moment,  but  remain  like  brilliant  beacon-lights  over  the  wide 
waters  of  the  future. 


LEONARD   BACON. 

Leonard  Bacon  was  born  in  Detroit,  Mich.,  February  19,  1802.  His  father  was  a  native 
of  Connecticut,  and  had  been  sent  to  the  West  as  a  missionary  to  the  Indians.  He  was 
graduated  at  Yale  College  in  1820,  and,  after  pursuing  a  theological  course  at  Andover,  was 
settled,  in  1825,  as  pastor  of  the  Centre  Church,  in  New  Haven.  His  connection  with  the 
church  has  not  been  severed,  although  he  has  held  a  chair  in  the  university  for  some  years. 
In  1866  he  was  appointed  professor  of  didactic  theology,  and  is  now  lecturer  on  church 
polity  and  American  church  history. 

Dr.  Bacon  is  one  of  the  characteristic  products  of  Puritan  training  in  New  England,  and 
has  long  been  one  of  the  ablest  and  most  widely  known  of  preachers.  He  is  a  man  of  great 
energy  and  intellectual  power,  possessed  of  more  than  ordinary  vivacity  and  facility  of  ex- 
pression, and  a  temper  that  friends  call  uncompromising,  but  which  might  be  thought  pug- 
nacious in  a  layman. 

His  published  sermons  are  very  numerous,  and  so  are  his  contributions  to  religious 
periodicals.  In  everything  he  has  written  it  is  apparent  that  he  has  something  to  say,  and 
his  clear  sentences  never  leave  any  doubt  of  his  meaning.  He  is  not  fond  of  rhetorical  arts, 
and  his  scope,  as  well  as  his  modes  of  illustration,  are  somewhat  limited  ;  but  there  are  few 
preachers  who  have  done  more  thorough  and  conscientious  work,  or  who  have  wielded  such 
a  great  and  beneficent  influence. 

He  published  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Baxter,  in  1835,  two  vols.  8vo.,  and  Slavery  Dis- 
cussed in  Essays,  1846.  His  articles  in  the  New  Englander,  and  the  Bibliotheca  Sacra, 
especially  those  upon  ecclesiastical  history,  are  very  valuable.  A  selection  from  his  many 
sermons  would  be  prized  by  religious  readers. 

[From  an  Oration  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Dartmouth  College,  July  30,  1845.] 
A   LIBERAL   EDUCATION. 

AT  the  outset,  it  is  worth  our  while  to  recollect  distinctly  what  we 
mean  by  liberal  education.  It  is  that  higher  and  general  education 
in  science  and  in  letters  which  is  distinguished  from  common  educa- 
tion on  the  one  hand  and  from  professional  education  on  the  other. 
There  is  the  common  education  of  American  citizens,  for  which  the 
system  of  common  schools  is  established.  Such  an  education  com- 
prehends those  rudiments  of  knowledge  without  which  the  citizen, 
in  every  employment,  is  degraded  below  his  proper  level.  Every 


LEONARD   BACON.  225 

citizen  must  be  able  to  read,  to  write,  to  keep  accounts,  and  must 
have  some  knowledge  of  the  geography,  institutions,  and  laws  of  his 
country,  and  of  its  relations  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  or  he  is  not  fit 
to  be  a  citizen.  Besides  this  education  common  to  all  the  people, 
there  is  also  that  particular  education  by  which  each  individual  is  to 
be  qualified  for  his  own  particular  occupation  in  society  ;  and  this  we 
call  professional  education.  Of  two  boys  who  are  together  at  the 
common  school,  and  equal  in  all  that  constitutes  the  education  there 
acquired,  one,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  enters  a  watchmaker's  shop  as 
an  apprentice ;  the  other,  at  the  same  age,  enters  an  attorney's 
office  as  a  clerk.  The  one  learns  how  to  handle  the  tools  of  his 
trade  ;  he  learns  much  about  the  mechanism  of  the  various  kinds  of 
timepieces,  and  not  a  little  about  the  qualities  of  different  metals 
and  metallic  compounds  ;  and  at  the  same  time,  by  constant  practice, 
he  acquires  the  skill  necessary  for  the  nice  and  diversified  operations 
of  his  art.  »  The  other  learns  how  to  draw  writs,  declarations,  and 
pleadings,  contracts,  deeds,  and  wills  ;  he  learns  the  routine  of  courts 
and  of  legal  practice  ;  he  learns  the  meaning  of  law  phrases ;  he 
learns  the  nature  of  various  kinds  of  testimony,  and  the  processes  of 
law  logic  ;  he  reads  law  books,  and  becomes  familiar  with  authorities, 
and  skilful  in  finding  and  applying  precedents.  Each  of  these  two 
men  has  acquired  what  may  be  called  a  professional  education.  The 
watchmaker  indeed  is  a  mechanic,  and  the  lawyer  is  considered  as 
belonging  to  one  of  the  learned  professions  ;  but  if  neither  of  them 
has  learned  anything  except  what  lies  directly  in  the  line  of  his  own 
particular  trade  or  employment,  neither  of  them  can  be  said  to  be 
liberally  educated.  .  .  . 

A  liberally  educated  man,  then,  is  one  whose  faculties  have  been 
disciplined,  and  whose  mind  has  been  expanded  and  quickened,  not 
only  by  that  kind  of  knowledge  which  is  common  to  the  citizens  of 
an  enlightened  country,  and  by  that  which  is  essential  to  his  own. 
particular  occupation  in  the  world,  but  also  by  an  enlarged  circuit  of 
free  study  in  the  various  departments  of  learning  and  of  science.  It 
is  for  this  liberal  education,  and  not  for  what  is  sometimes  called  a 
practical  education,  that  colleges  are  established  by  public  or  by 
private  munificence.  Yet  a  liberal  education  and  a  college  educa- 
tion are  not,  in  all  instances,  precisely  the  same  thing.  A  man  may 
be  liberally  educated  —  nay,  with  proper  effort,  he  may  liberally 
educate  himself —  in  retirement,  without  the  helps  and  excitements 
of  a  public  institution.  And  on  the  other  hand,  a  man  may  have  all 
these  advantages,  and  may  get  through  a  four  years'  course  of 
15 


226  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

lessons,  lectures,  and  examinations,  and  may  even  by  some  accident 
come  out  at  the  end  with  a  college  diploma,  and  after  all  have  no 
education  worthy  to  be  called  liberal  —  none  that  has  had  the  effect 
of  imparting  enlargement  and  freedom  to  the  mind,  and  of  giving 
new  vigor  and  symmetry  to  the  various  faculties  by  various  culture. 

There  is  a  common  prejudice  which  associates  the  idea  of  a  liberal 
education  exclusively,  or  almost  exclusively,  with  the  three  learned 
professions,  as  they  are  called.  But  this  is  only  a  prejudice.  In 
truth,  there  is  no  profession  which  a  liberally  educated  man  may 
not  adorn.  He  may  enter  the  pulpit,  he  may  plead  at  the  bar,  he 
may  practise  the  healing  art,  he  may  aspire  to  serve  his  country  in  a 
political  career  ;  or,  with  equal  propriety,  he  may  return  to  his  paternal 
acres,  or  may  engage  in  commerce,  or  in  any  honest  business.  He 
is  not  limited  in  his  choice.  .  .  . 

Every  liberally  educated  man  ought  to  be  a  better  man  in  his  pro- 
fession than  if  he  were  not  thus  educated.  It  is  naturally  and  rea- 
sonably demanded  of  the  minister  of  the  gospel,  who  has  enjoyed 
the  invigorating  discipline  and  the  liberalizing  culture  of  classical 
and  scientific  studies,  that  all  this  shall  make  him  more  accurate, 
more  skilful,  and  more  powerful  in  the  exhibition  of  religious  truth. 
With  the  same  propriety  it  is  expected  of  the  lawyer  or  physician 
whose  professional  studies  have  been  preceded  by  a  liberal  training, 
that  the  value  of  that  previous  training  shall  be  seen  in  his  earlier 
and  higher  professional  eminence.  .  .  . 

The  man  who  has  been  liberally  educated  is  prepared  to  liberal- 
ize and  elevate  any  profession  which  it  may  be  his  lot  to  pursue.  If 
there  were  nothing  of  the  nature  of  liberal  education  in  the  com- 
munity, the  constant  tendency  of  every  profession,  not  excepting  the 
learned  professions,  would  be  to  sink  into  a  mere  trade,  and  to 
involve  no  knowledge  but  the  knowledge  of  technicalities.  The 
trade  of  practising  law  may  be  acquired  without  learning  much  of 
the  science  of  law  in  any  large  and  liberal  view,  or  of  the  relations  of 
that  science  to  other  departments  of  the  field  of  universal  knowledge  ; 
but  if  all  lawyers  were  educated  in  that  way,  how  soon  would  the 
practice  of  law  become  nothing  better  than  a  low  trade  of  pettifog- 
ging !  So  a  certain  trade  of  curing  diseases  may  be  learned  by 
learning  a  few  formulas,  the  names  and  more  obvious  symptoms  of 
a  few  diseases,  and  the  names  and  qualities  of  a  few  medicines,  with- 
out acquiring  any  apprehension  of  those  wide  and  various  sciences 
into  which  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the  healing  art  resolves  itself;  and 
if  all  physicians  were  educated  in  this  way,  the  profession  would  be 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  22/ 

continually  sinking  to  a  lower  level,  and  in  time  the  community 
would  be  delivered  over  to  the  healing  skill  of  quacks  and  grannies. 
So  every  profession  may  be  acquired  and  practised  as  a  mere  trade  ; 
and  on  the  other  hand,  any  mechanical  trade  acquired  and  pursued 
by  a  man  of  well-informed  and  cultivated  mind,  bringing  all  his 
faculties  to  bear  upon  his  proper  business,  becomes  a  liberal  profes- 
sion. One  part,  then,  of  the  influence  of  the  liberally  educated  man, 
in  whatever  iemployment,  should  be  to  bring  into  his  profession 
large  views  of  its  relations  to  society  and  to  the  universal  range  of 
knowledge,  and  thus  to  counteract  its  tendency  to  mere  technicality 
and  unintelligent  tradition. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  was  born  in  Boston,  May  25,  1803.  His  father,  the  Rev.  William 
Emerson,  was  a  member  of  the  Anthology  Club,  mentioned  in  the  introduction  of  this  work. 
He  was  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1821,  and  after  teaching  school  for  some  years  he 
entered  the  ministry  in  1826.  In  1829  he  was  settled  in  Boston  as  successor  of  the  Rev. 
Henry  Ware.  He  left  the  church  and  the  ministry  in  1832,  on  account  of  a  change  in  his 
opinions,  and  then  sailed  to  Europe,  where  he  remained  a  year.  Upon  his  return  he  com- 
menced his  career  as  a  lecturer,  and  soon  after  took  up  his  residence  at  Concord.  The 
historic  town  has  gained  thereby  a  new  and,  perhaps,  more  lasting  distinction. 

With  some  authors,  lecturing  is  an  occasional  employment  or  recreation ;  Emerson  is  a 
lecturer  only,  born  and  developed  for  that  function.  When  one  series  of  topics  has  engaged 
his  thoughts  for  a  sufficient  length  of  time,  and  has  been  retouched  in  the  course  of  succes- 
sive readings  before  the  public,  it  is  laid  aside  for  the  printer,  and  appears  as  a  volume  of  his 
works.  The  field  is  not  suffered  to  lie  fallow  long  ;  soon  a  new  crop  appears,  to  go  through 
the  same  changes — to  delight  the  circles  of  his  admirers,  and  to  be  gathered  into  fair 
sheaves  at  last.  This  is  the  history  of  all  his  prose  works. 

Though  there  is  room  for  differences  of  opinion  as  to  the  soundness  of  Mr.  Emerson's 
methods,  and  of  the  value  of  the  philosophical  results  he  presents,  there  can-  be  no  question 
as  to  his  high  rank  among  writers.  And  it  is  humiliating  to  remember  that  for  years  his 
name  was  scarcely  mentioned,  even  in  so-called  literary  periodicals,  without  a  sneer.  He 
was  stigmatized  as  an  imitator  of  Carlyle,  when,  in  truth,  he  has  hardly  any  qualities  in  com- 
mon with  that  iconoclast.  Writers  who  had  finished  the  literature  of  the  primer,  and 
were  commencing  Tupper,  thought  Emerson's  Oriental  similes  to  be  excellent  matter  for 
diversion  ;  the  learning  that  transcended  their  horn-book  experience  they  hooted  at ;  and 
the  sentences  so  crystallized  as  to  be  insoluble  by  their  chemistry  they  called  riddles.  All 
this  only  proved  that  genius  is  never  recognized  at  first  sight,  and  that  though  hemlock  has 
gone  out  of  fashion,  the  multitude  is  hardly  more  just  to  its  philosophers  now  than  the 
Athenian  public  was  to  Socrates. 

Emerson  is  not  a  philosopher  solely ;  he  stands  rather  on  the  height  where  poetry  and 
philosophy  meet  He  never  argues  and  never  pursues  with  strictness  a  train  of  thought. 
He  is  a  disciple  of  no  one  master  —  neither  of  Plato,  Kant,  nor  Comte.  He  has  estab- 
lished no  school,  intellectual  or  moral  But  with  wonderfully  sharp  perception  he  has 
looked  into  the  vast  drama  of  the  universe,  the  mystery  of  existence,  and  the  powers  of  the 
soul.  With  equal  acuteness  he  has  observed  the  manifestations  of  nature  in  plants  and 
animals.  And  in  a  long  lifetime  he  has  mastered  and  assimilated  the  wisdom  of  centuries. 


228  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

His  vivid  imagination  supplies  him  with  figures  that  are  as  brilliant  and  enduring  as 
diamonds.  But  all  he  sees  is  with  a  poet's  eye.  The  course  of  empires,  the  development 
of  the  arts,  the  learning  of  scholars,  the  beauty  of  landscapes,  furnish  hints  to  his  all- 
absorbing  mind ;  but  the  separate  ideas  never  coalesce  into  a  system.  His  essays  are  full  of 
golden  veins  and  imbedded  gems ;  a  whole  dictionary  of  quotations  could  be  made  from 
them.  His  poems  have  the  same  qualities,  and  sparkle  with  aphoristic  lines ;  but  his 
sense  of  melody  or  his  command  of  metre  is  limited,  and  his  verses  sometimes  have  a  simple 
and  rustic  monotony  of  cadence,  like  the  oft-repeated  plaint  of  a  wild  bird. 
The  strongest  trait  in  Mr.  Emerson's  nature  is  his  worship  of  the  beautiful : 

"Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen," 

is  his  claim  for  his  Humble-Bee.  The  thoughts  of  death  and  distress  as  well  as  of  what  is 
vile  and  uncomely  are  silently  shut  out.  The  universe  for  him  is  kosmos,  in  its  sense  of  beauty. 

The  opinions  of  Mr.  Emerson  are  nowhere  clearly  set  down  ;  and  it  is  scarcely  worth  the 
time  here  to  attempt  an  analysis,  or  to  note  his  divergence  from  Christian  doctrines.  Those 
who  are  sufficiently  cultivated  to  be  influenced  by  him  will  be  certain  to  have  also  sufficient 
intelligence  to  judge  for  themselves. 

Mr.  Emerson's  works  consist  of  Essays,  first  and  second  series,  Miscellanies,  Repre- 
sentative Men,  English  Traits,  Poems,  Conduct  of  Life,  and  Society  and  Solitude,  each  in 
one  volume  (Boston,  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co.)  He  also  contributed  a  portion  of  the  Memoir 
of  Margaret  Fuller.  He  still  gives  some  time  to  periodical  writing,  and  the  reading  world 
will  hope  that  the  intimation  conveyed  in  the  poem  entitled  Terminus  (Atlantic  Monthly, 
January,  1867)  may  long  wait  for  a  literal  fulfilment. 

[From  Nature,  in  the  volume  of  Miscellanies.] 
LANGUAGE. 

WORDS  are  signs  of  natural  facts.  The  use  of  natural  history  is 
to  give  us  aid  in  supernatural  history  :  the  use  of  the  outer  creation, 
to  give  us  language  for  the  beings  and  changes  of  the  inward  crea- 
tion. Every  word  which  is  used  to  express  a  moral  or  intellectual 
fact,  if  traced  to  its  root,  is  found  to  be  borrowed  from  some  material 
appearance.  Right  means  straight;  wrong  means  twisted.  Spirit 
primarily  means  wind;  transgression,  the  crossing  of  a  line;  super- 
cilious, the  raising  of  the  eyebrow.  We  say  the  heart  to  express 
emotion,  the  head  to  denote  thought ;  and  thought  and  emotion  are 
words  borrowed  from  sensible  things,  and  now  appropriated  to 
spiritual  nature.  Most  of  the  process  by  which  this  transformation 
is  made  is  hidden  from  us  in  the  remote  time  when  language  was 
framed  ;  but  the  same  tendency  may  be  daily  observed  in  children. 
Children  and  savages  use  only  nouns,  or  names  of  things,  which  they 
convert  into  verbs,  and  apply  to  analogous  mental  acts. 

But  this  origin  of  all  words  that  convey  a  spiritual  import  —  so 
conspicuous  a  fact  in  the  history  of  language  —  is  our  least  debt  to 
nature.  It  is  not  words  only  that  are  emblematic  ;  it  is  things 
which  are  emblematic.  Every  natural  fact  is  a  symbol  of  some 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  22Q 

spiritual  fact.  Every  appearance  in  nature  corresponds  to  some 
state  of  the  mind,  and  that  state  of  the  mind  can  only  be  described 
by  presenting  that  natural  appearance  as  its  picture.  An  enraged 
man  is  a  lion,  a  cunning  man  is  a  fox,  a  firm  man  is  a  rock,  a  learned 
man  is  a  torch.  A  lamb  is  innocence  ;  a  snake  is  subtle  spite ; 
flowers  express  to  us  the  delicate  affections.  Light  and  darkness 
are  our  familiar  expression  for  knowledge  and  ignorance  ;  and  heat 
for  love.  Visible  distance  behind  and  before  us  is  respectively  our 
image  of  memory  and  hope.  .  .  . 

Because  of  this  radical  correspondence  between  visible  things  and 
human  thoughts,  savages,  who  have  only  what  is  necessary,  con- 
verse in  figures.  As  we  go  back  in  history,  language  becomes  more 
picturesque,  until  its  infancy,  when  it  is  all  poetry ;  or  all  spiritual 
facts  are  represented  by  natural  symbols.  The  same  symbols  are 
found  to  make  the  original  elements  of  all  languages.  It  has  more- 
over been  observed,  that  the  idioms  of  all  languages  approach  each 
other  in  passages  of  the  greatest  eloquence  and  power.  And  as  this 
is  the  first  language,  so  it  is  the  last.  This  immediate  dependence 
of  language  upon  nature,  this  conversion  of  an  outward  phenomenon 
into  a  type  of  somewhat  in  human  life,  never  loses  its  power  to 
affect  us.  It  is  this  which  gives  that  piquancy  to  the  conversation 
of  a  strong-natured  farmer  or  backwoodsman  which  all  men  relish. 

A  man's  power  to  connect  his  thought  with  its  proper  symbol, 
and  so  to  utter  it,  depends  on  the  simplicity  of  his  character,  that  is, 
upon  his  love  of  truth,  and  his  desire  to  communicate  it  without 
loss.  The  corruption  of  man  is  followed  by  the  corruption  of  lan- 
guage. When  simplicity  of  character  and  the  sovereignty  of  ideas 
are  broken  up  by  the  prevalence  of  secondary  desires,  —  the  desire  of 
riches,  of  pleasure,  of  power,  and  of  praise,  —  and  duplicity  and  false- 
hood take  place  of  simplicity  and  truth,  the  power  over  nature  as  an 
interpreter  of  the  will  is  in  a  degree  lost ;  new  imagery  ceases  to  be 
created,  and  old  words  are  perverted  to  stand  for  things  which  are 
not ;  a  paper  currency  is  employed  when  there  is  no  bullion  in  the 
vaults.  In  due  time,  the  fraud  is  manifest,  and  words  lose  all 
power  to  stimulate  the  understanding  or  the  affections.  Hundreds 
of  writers  may  be  found  in  every  long-civilized  nation,  who  for  a  short 
time  believe,  and  make  others  believe,  that  they  see  and  utter 
truths,  who  do  not  of  themselves  clothe  one  thought  in  its  natural 
garment,  but  who  feed  unconsciously  on  the  language  created  by  the 
primary  writers  of  the  country,  —  those,  namely,  who  hold  primarily 
on  nature. 


23O       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

But  wise  men  pierce  this  rotten  diction,  and  fasten  words  again  to 
visible  things  ;  so  that  picturesque  language  is  at  once  a  command- 
ing certificate  that  he  who  employs  it,  is  a  man  in  alliance  with 
truth  and  God.  The  moment  our  discourse  rises  above  the  ground 
line  of  familiar  facts,  and  is  inflamed  with  passion  or  exalted  by 
thought,  it  clothes  itself  in  images.  A  man  conversing  in  earnest,  if 
he  watch  his  intellectual  processes,  will  find  that  a  material  image, 
more  or  less  luminous,  arises  in  his  mind,  contemporaneous  with 
every  thought,  which  furnishes  the  vestment  of  the  thought.  Hence 
good  writing  and  brilliant  discourse  are  perpetual  allegories.  This 
imagery  is  spontaneous.  It  is  the  blending  of  experience  with  the 
present  action  of  the  mind.  It  is  proper  creation.  It  is  the  work- 
ing of  the  original  cause  through  the  instruments  he  has  already 
made. 

These  facts  may  suggest  the  advantage  which  country-life  pos- 
sesses, for  a  powerful  mind,  over  the  artificial  and  curtailed  life  of 
cities.  We  know  more  from  nature  than  we  can  at  will  com- 
municate. Its  light  flows  into  the  mind  evermore,  and  we  forget  its 
presence.  The  poet,  the  orator,  bred  in  the  woods,  —  whose  senses 
have  been  nourished  by  their  fair  and  appeasing  changes,  year  after 
year,  without  design  and  without  heed,  —  shall  not  lose  their  lesson 
altogether,  in  the  roar  of  cities  or  the  broil  of  politics.  Long  hereafter, 
amidst  agitation  and  terror  in  national  councils,  —  in  the  hour  of  revo- 
lution, —  these  solemn  images  shall  reappear  in  their  morning  lustre, 
as  fit  symbols  and  words  of  the  thoughts  which  the  passing  events 
shall  awaken.  At  the  call  of  a  noble  sentiment,  again  the  woods 
wave,  the  pines  murmur,  the  river  rolls  and  shines,  and  the  cattle 
low  upon  the  mountains,  as  he  saw  and  heard  them  in  his  infancy. 
And  with  these  forms,  the  spells  of  persuasion,  the  keys  of  power 
are  put  into  his  hands. 

We  are  thus  assisted  by  natural  objects  in  the  expression  of 
particular  meanings.  But  how  great  a  language  to  convey  such 
pepper-corn  informations  !  Did  it  need  such  noble  races  of  crea- 
tures, this  profusion  of  forms,  this  host  of  orbs  in  heaven,  to  furnish 
man  with  the  dictionary  and  grammar  of  his  municipal  speech? 
Whilst  we  use  this  grand  cipher  to  expedite  the  affairs  of  our  pot 
and  kettle,  we  feel  that  we  have  not  yet  put  it  to  its  use,  neither  are 
able.  We  are  like  travellers  using  the  cinders  of  a  volcano  to  roast 
their  eggs.  Whilst  we  see  that  it  always  stands  ready  to  clothe  what 
we  would  say,  we  cannot  avoid  the  question  whether  the  characters 
are  not  significant  of  themselves.  Have  mountains,  and  waves,  and 


RALPH    WALDO   EMERSON.  23! 

skies,  no  significance  but  what  we  consciously  give  them,  when  we 
employ  them  as  emblems  of  our  thoughts  ?  The  world  is  emblem- 
atic. Parts  of  speech  are  metaphors,  because  the  whole  of  nature 
is  a  metaphor  of  the  human  kind.  The  laws  of  moral  nature  answer 
to  those  of  matter  as  face  to  face  in  a  glass.  .  .  . 

In  like  manner,  the  memorable  words  of  history,  and  the  proverbs 
of  nations,  consist  usually  of  a  natural  fact,  selected  as  a  picture  or 
parable  of  a  moral  truth.  Thus  ;  A  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss  ; 
A  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush  ;  A  cripple  in  the  right 
way  will  beat  a  racer  in  the  wrong  ;  Make  hay  while  the  sun 
shines  ;  'Tis  hard  to  carry  a  full  cup  even ;  Vinegar  is  the  son  of 
wine  ;  The  last  ounce  broke  the  camel's  back  ;  Long-lived  trees  make 
roots  first ;  —  and  the  like.  In  their  primary  sense  these  are  trivial 
facts,  but  we  repeat  them  for  the  value  of  their  analogical  import. 
What  is  true  of  proverbs  is  true  of  all  fables,  parables,  and  allegories. 

This  relation  between  the  mind  and  matter  is  not  fancied  by  some 
poet,  but  stands  in  the  will  of  God,  and  so  is  free  to  be  known  by  all 
men.  It  appears  to  men,  or  it  does  not  appear.  When  in  fortunate 
hours  we  ponder  this  miracle,  the  wise  man  doubts,  if,  at  all  other 
times,  he  is  not  blind  and  deaf ; 

"  Can  these  things  be, 
And  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud, 
Without  our  special  wonder  ?  " 

for  the  universe  becomes  transparent,  and  the  light  of  higher  laws 
than  its  own  shines  through  it. 


[From  Society  and  Solitude.] 
DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

THE  perfection  of  the  providence  for  childhood  is  easily  acknowl- 
edged. The  care  which  covers  the  seed  of  the  tree  under  tough 
husks  and  stony  cases  provides  for  the  human  plant  the  mother's 
breast  and  the  father's  house.  The  size  of  the  nestler  is  comic,  and 
its  tiny  beseeching  weakness  is  compensated  perfectly  by  the  happy 
patronizing  look  of  the  mother,  who  is  a  sort  of  high  reposing 
Providence  towards  it.  Welcome  to  the  parents  the  puny  struggler, 
strong  in  its  weakness,  his  little  arms  more  irresistible  than  the 
soldier's,  his  lips  touched  with  persuasion  which  Chatham  and 
Pericles  in  manhood  had  not.  His  unaffected  lamentations  when  he 
lifts  up  his  voice  on  high,  or,  more  beautiful,  the  sobbing  child,  — • 


232       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

the  face  all  liquid  grief,  as  he  tries  to  swallow  his  vexation,  —  soften 
all  hearts  to  pity,  and  to  mirthful  and  clamorous  compassion.  The 
small  despot  asks  so  little  that  all  reason  and  all  nature  are  on  his 
side.  His  ignorance  is  more  charming  than  all  knowledge,  and  his 
little  sins  more  bewitching  than  any  virtue.  His  flesh  is  angels' 
flesh,  all  alive.  "  Infancy,"  said  Coleridge,  "  presents  body  and 
spirit  in  unity  ;  the  body  is  all  animated."  All  day,  between  his 
three  or  four  sleeps,  he  cooes  like  a  pigeon-house,  sputters,  and  spurs, 
and  puts  on  his  faces  of  importance ;  and  when  he  fasts,  the  little 
Pharisee  fails  not  to  sound  his  trumpet  before  him.  By  lamplight 
he  delights  in  shadows  on  the  wall ;  by  daylight,  in  yellow  and 
scarlet.  Carry  him  out  of  doors  —  he  is  overpowered  by  the  light 
and  by  the  extent  of  natural  objects,  and  is  silent.  Then  present- 
ly begins  his  use  of  his  ringers,  and  he  studies  power,  the  lesson  of 
race.  First  it  appears  in  no  great  harm,  in  architectural  tastes.  Out 
of  blocks,  thread-spools,  cards,  and  checkers,  he  will  build  his 
pyramid  with  the  gravity  of  Palladio.  With  an  acoustic  apparatus 
of  whistle  and  rattle  he  explores  the  laws  of  sound.  But  chiefly, 
like  his  senior  countrymen,  the  young  American  studies  new  and 
speedier  modes  of  transportation.  Mistrusting  the  cunning  of  his 
small  legs,  he  wishes  to  ride  on  the  necks  and  shoulders  of  all  flesh. 
The  small  enchanter  nothing  can  withstand,  —  no  seniority  of  age, 
no  gravity  of  character  ;  uncles,  aunts,  grandsires,  grandams,  fall  an 
easy  prey  :  he  conforms  to  nobody,  all  conform  to  him  ;  all  caper,  and 
make  mouths,  and  babble,  and  chirrup  to  him.  On  the  strongest 
shoulders  he  rides,  and  pulls  the  hair  of  laurelled  heads. 

"  The  childhood,"  said  Milton,  "  shows  the  man,  as  morning  shows 
the  day."  The  child  realizes  to  every  man  his  own  earliest  remem- 
brances, and  so  supplies  a  defect  in  our  education,  or  enables  us  to 
live  over  the  unconscious  history  with  a  sympathy  so  tender  as  to 
be  almost  personal  experience. 

Fast  —  almost  too  fast  for  the  wistful  curiosity  of  the  parents, 
studious  of  the  witchcraft  of  curls,  and  dimples,  and  broken  words  — 
the  little  talker  grows  to  a  boy.  He  walks  daily  among  wonders  : 
fire,  light,  darkness,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  furniture  of  the  house, 
the  red  tin  horse,  the  domestics,  who,  like  rude  foster-mothers,  be- 
friend and  feed  him,  the  faces  that  claim  his  kisses,  are  all  in  turn 
absorbing ;  yet  warm,  cheerful,  and  with  good  appetite,  the  little 
sovereign  subdues  them  without  knowing  it ;  the  new  knowledge  is 
taken  up  into  the  life  of  to-day,  and  becomes  the  means  of  more. 
The  blowing  rose  is  a  new  event ;  the  garden  full  of  flowers  is  Eden 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 


233 


over  again  to  the  small  Adam ;  the  rain,  the  ice,  the  frost,  make 
epochs  in  his  life.  What  a  holiday  is  the  first  snow  in  which  Two- 
shoes  can  be  trusted  abroad  !  , 

What  art  can  paint  or  gild  any  object  in  after-life  with  the  glow 
which  Nature  gives  to  the  first  baubles  of  childhood  !  St.  Peter's 
cannot  have  the  magical  power  over  us  that  the  red  and  gold 
covers  of  our  first  picture-book  possessed.  How  the  imagination 
cleaves  to  the  warm  glories  of  that  tinsel  even  now  !  What  enter- 
tainments make  every  day  bright  and  short  for  the  fine  freshman  ! 
The  street  is  old  as  nature  ;  the  persons  all  have  their  sacredness. 
His  imaginative  life  dresses  all  things  in  their  best.  His  fears 
adorn  the  dark  parts  .with  poetry.  He  has  heard  of  wild  horses  and 
of  bad  boys,  and  with  a  pleasing  terror  he  watches  at  his  gate  for  the 
passing  of  those  varieties  of  each  species.  The  first  ride  into  the 
country,  the  first  bath  in  running  water,  the  first  time  the  skates 
are  put  on,  the  first  game  out  of  doors  in  moonlight,  the  books  of 
the  nursery,  are  new  chapters  of  joy.  The  Arabian  Nights'  Enter- 
tainments, the  Seven  Champions  of  Christendom,  Robinson  Cru- 
soe, and  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  —  what  mines  of  thought  and 
emotion,  what  a  wardrobe  to  dress  the  whole  world  withal,  are  in 
this  encyclopaedia  of  young  thinking  !  And  so  by  beautiful  traits, 
which,  without  art,  yet  seem  the  masterpiece  of  wisdom,  provoking 
the  love  that  watches  and  educates  him,  the  little  pilgrim  prosecutes 
the  journey  through  nature  which  he  has  thus  gayly  begun.  He 
grows  up  the  ornament  and  joy  of  the  house,  which  rings  to  his 
glee,  to  rosy  boyhood. 


[Selections  from  May-Day.] 
DAUGHTER  of  Heaven  and  Earth,  coy  Spring,      Or  vagrant  booming  of  the  air, 


With  sudden  passion  languishing, 
Maketh  all  things  softly  smile, 
Painteth  pictures  mile  en  mile, 
Holds  a  cup  with  cowslip-wreaths, 
Whence  a  smokeless  incense  breathes. 
Girls  are  peeling  the  sweet  willow, 
Poplar  white,  and  Gilead  tree, 
And  troops  of  boys 
Shouting  with  whoop  and  hilloa, 
And  hip,  hip,  three  times  three. 
The  air  is  full  of  whistlings  bland  ; 
What  was  that  I  heard 
Out  of  the  hazy  land? 
Harp  of  the  wind,  or  song  of  bird, 
Or  clapping  of  shepherd's  hands, 


Voice  of  a  meteor  lost  in  day  ? 

Such  tidings  of  the  starry  sphere 

Can  this  elastic  air  convey. 

Or  haply  'twas  the  cannonade 

Of  the  pent  and  darkened  lake, 

Cooled  by  the  pendent  mountain's  shade, 

Whose  deeps,  till  beams  of  noonday  break, 

Afflicted  moan,  and  latest  hold 

Even  into  May  the  iceberg  cold. 

Was  it  a  squirrel's  pettish  bark, 

Or  clarionet  of  jay  ?  or,  hark, 

Where  yon  wedged  line  the  Nestor  leads, 

Steering  north  with  raucous  cry 

Through  tracts  and  provinces  of  sky, 

Every  night  alighting  down 


234 


HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


In  new  landscapes  of  romance, 
Where  darkling  feed  the  clamorous  clans 
By  lonely  lakes  to  men  unknown. 
Come  the  tumult  whence  it  will, 
Voice  of  sport,  or  rush  of  wings, 
It  is  a  sound,  it  is  a  token 
That  the  marble  sleep  is  broken, 
And  a  change  has  passed  on  things. 

April  cold  with  dropping  rain 

Willows  and  lilacs  brings  again, 

The  whistle  of  returning  birds, 

And  trumpet-lowing  of  the  herds. 

The  scarlet  maple-keys  betray 

What  potent  blood  hath  modest  May ; 

What  fiery  force  the  earth  renews, 

The  wealth  of  forms,  the  flush  of  hues; 

Joy  shed  in  rosy  waves  abroad 

Flows  from  the  heart  of  Love,  the  Lord. 

Ah  !  well  I  mind  the  calendar, 
Faithful  through  a  thousand  years, 
Of  the  painted  race  of  flowers, 
Exact  to  days,  exact  to  hours, 
Counted  on  the  spacious  dial 
Yon  broidered  zodiac  girds. 
I  know  the  pretty  almanac 


Of  the  punctual  coming-back, 

On  their  due  days,  of  the  birds. 

I  marked  them  yestermorn, 

A  flock  of  finches  darting 

Beneath  the  crystal  arch, 

Piping  as  they  flew,  a  march,  — 

Belike  the  one  they  used  in  parting 

Last  year  from  yon  oak  or  larch ; 

Dusky  sparrows  in  a  crowd, 

Diving,  darting  northward  free, 

Suddenly  betook  them  all, 

Every  erne  to  his  hole  in  the  wall, 

Or  to  his  niche  in  the  apple  tree. 

I  greet  with  joy  the  choral  trains 

Fresh  from  palms  and  Cuba's  canes. 

Best  gems  of  Nature's  cabinet, 

With  dews  of  tropic  morning  wet, 

Beloved  of  children,  bards,  and  Spring, 

O  birds,  your  perfect  virtues  bring, 

Your  song,  your  forms,  your  rhythmic  flight 

Your  manners  for  the  heart's  delight ; 

Nestle  in  hedge,  or  barn,  or  roof, 

Here  weave  your  chamber  weather-proof; 

Forgive  our  harms,  and  condescend 

To  man,  as  to  a  lubber  friend, 

And,  generous,  teach  his  awkward  race 

Courage,  and  probity,  and  grace  ! 


[From  The  Problem.] 


THE  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome, 
And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome, 
Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity ; 
Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free  ; 
He  builded  better  than  he  knew  ;  — 
The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 


Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 
As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone  ; 


And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids, 
To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids  ; 
O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 
As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye  ; 
For,  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere, 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air ; 
And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 


HYMN. 
SUNG  AT  THE  COMPLETION  OF  THE  CONCORD  MONUMENT,  APRIL  19,  1836. 

BY  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 


RALPH    WALDO   EMERSON.  235 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps  ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone, 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 

To  die,  or  leave  their  children  free, 
Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 

The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 


GOOD   BY. 

GOOD  BY,  proud  world  !     I'm  going  home  ; 

Thou  art  not  my  friend,  and  I'm  not  thine. 
Long  through  the  weary  crowds  I  roam  ; 

A  river-ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 
Long  I've  been  tossed  like  the  driven  foam; 
But  now,  proud  world,  I'm  going  home. 

Good  by  to  Flattery's  fawning  face  ; 
To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace ; 
To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye  ; 
To  supple  Office,  low  and  high  ; 
To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street ; 
To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet ; 
To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come ; 
Good  by,  proud  world  !  I'm  going  home. 

I  am  going  to  my  own  hearth -stone, 
Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone  — 
A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned ; 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay, 
And  vulgar  feet  have  never  trod 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 


236  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

O,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  tread  on  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome ; 
And  when  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  the  pride  of  man, 
At  the  sophist  schools,  and  the  learned  clan ; 
For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet  ? 


ORESTES   AUGUSTUS   BROWNSON. 

Orestes  Augustus  Brownson  was  born  at  Stockbridge,  Vt.,  September  16,  1803.  He  was 
early  inclined  to  religious  and  philosophical  discussion,  and  has  since  sought  truth  through 
every  conceivable  avenue  of  approach.  Commencing  with  the  creed  of  New  England  Con- 
gregationalism, he  joined  the  Presbyterian  church  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  while  attending  an 
academy.  After  some  struggles  he  became,  in  1825,  a  Universalist  minister,  preaching  and 
writing  in  his  usual  strong  and  aggressive  style.  He  next  gave  his  sympathies  to  the  social 
reforms  proposed  by  Robert  Owen  ;  but,  finding  progress  slow  in  that  direction,  he  was 
attracted  by  the  influence  of  Dr.  Channing,  and  was  pastor  of  a  Unitarian  society.  In  this 
period  he  enlarged  his  acquaintance  with  languages,  literature,  and  philosophy.  This  phase 
of  thought  lasted  until  1836,  when  he  organized  a  new  society  in  Boston  for  "  Christian 
union  and  progress."  In  1838  he  established  the  Boston  Quarterly  Review,  which  he  edited 
for  five  years.  In  1840  he  published  Charles  Elwood,  or  the  Infidel  Converted,  a  strongly 
"medicated"  novel,  as  the  Autocrat's  friend  would  have  termed  it.  Having  gone  the 
round  of  speculative  ideas  in  theology,  he  began  to  experience  a  mental  reaction,  and  in  1844 
joined  the  Roman  Catholic  church.  In  the  same  year  he  commenced  the  publication  of 
Brownson's  Quarterly  Review,  which  was  continued  until  1864.  The  following  is  a  list  of  his 
later  works,  though,  perhaps,  not  complete  :  The  Spirit  Rapper  (1854)  ;  The  Convert  (1857) ; 
The  American  Republic,  its  Constitution,  Tendencies,  and  Destiny  (1865)  ;,  Liberalism  and 
the  Church  (1869).  He  removed  from  Boston  about  the  year  1854  and  has  since  resided 
in  and  near  New  York. 

Dr.  Brownson  is  an  exceedingly  able  and  acute  reasoner,  and  a  clear  and  forcible  writer. 
As  might  be  expected,  his  religious  convictions  permeate  nearly  every  sentence.  With 
most  authors  there  are  certain  fields  on  which  there  is  a  truce  to  controversy  ;  but  Dr. 
Brownson,  with  more  logic,  perhaps,  but  with  less  amenity,  treats  every  subject,  from  met- 
aphysics to  an  album  sonnet,  in  its  relations  to  the  church  ;  and  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
give  the  best  specimens  of  his  style  without  introducing  topics  that  do  not  belong  in  a  col- 
lection of  literature. 

[From  a  Review,  published  October,  1846.] 
WAR   AND   LOYALTY. 

OUR  orators  have  invested  the  Fourth  of  July  with  so  many  dis- 
turbing associations  that  our  citizens  are  gradually  becoming  less 
and  less  disposed  to  greet  its  annual  return  with  those  festivities 
which  it  was  the  hope  of  our  fathers  would  continue  to  mark  it 
through  all  generations  to  come.  Still,  it  is  a  day  sacred  in  the  affec- 


ORESTES   AUGUSTUS   BROWNSON.  237 

tions  of  every  American  citizen,  and  it  cannot  come  round  without 
exciting  lively  emotions  of  gratitude  and  joy  to  every  American 
heart.  The  birth  of  a  nation  is  an  event  to  be  remembered,  and  the 
day  on  which  it  takes  its  rank  in  the  family  of  independent  nations 
is  well  deserving  to  be  set  apart  by  some  service  at  once  joyous  and 
solemn,  recounting  the  glory  which  has  been  won,  the  blessings 
which  have  been  received,  and  pointing  to  the  high  destiny  and 
grave  responsibilities  to  which  the  new  people  are  called.  The  ora- 
tions ordinarily  given  on  our  national  anniversary  are  of  that  pecu- 
liar sort  which,  it  is  said,  neither  gods  nor  men  can  tolerate.  They 
are  tawdry  and  turgid,  full  of  stale  declamation  about  liberty,  ful- 
some and  disgusting  glorifications  of  ourselves  as  a  people,  or 
uncalled-for  denunciations  of  those  states  and  empires  that  have  not 
seen  proper  to  adopt  political  institutions  similar  to  our  own.  Yet 
we  may,  perhaps,  be  too  fastidious  in  our  taste,  and  too  sweeping  in 
our  censures.  Boys  will  be  boys,  and  dulness  will  be  dulness,  and 
when  either  is  installed  "  orator  of  the  day,"  the  performance  must 
needs  be  boyish  or  dull.  But  when  the  number  of  orations  annually 
called  forth  by  our  national  jubilee,  from  all  sorts  of  persons,  through- 
out the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  is  considered,  we  may  rather 
wonder  that  so  many  are  produced  which  do  credit  to  their  authors, 
and  fall  not  far  below  the  occasion,  than  that  there  are  so  few.  All 
are  not  mere  school-boy  productions  ;  all  are  not  patriotism  on  tiptoe, 
nor  eloquence  on  stilts.  Every  year  sends  out  not  a  few  which,  for 
their  sound  sense,  deep  thought,  subdued  passion,  earnest  spirit, 
manly  tone,  and  chaste  expression,  deserve  an  honorable  place  in 
our  national  literature.  There  are  —  and  perhaps  as  large  a  pro- 
portion as  we  ought  to  expect  —  Fourth  of  July  orators  who,  while 
they  indulge  in  not  unseemly  exultations,  forget  to  disgust  us  with 
untimely  rant  about  self-government,  the  marvellous  virtue  and  intel- 
ligence of  the  masses,  and  the  industrial  miracles  they  are  daily 
performing  ;  who  show  by  their  reserve,  rather  than  by  their  noisy 
declamation,  that  they  have  American  hearts  and  confidence  in 
American  patriotism  and  American  institutions.  A  people  not  fac- 
titiously great  has  no  occasion  to  speak  of  its  greatness,  and  true 
patriotism  expresses  itself  in  deeds  not  words.  .  .  . 

Their  patriotism  has  no  suspicions,  no  jealousies,  no  fears,  no 
self-consciousness.  It  is  too  deep  for  words.  It  is  silent,  majestic  ; 
it  is  where  the  country  is,  does  what  she  bids,  and,  though  sacrificing 
all  upon  her  altars,  never  dreams  that  it  is  doing  anything  extraor- 
dinary. There  is,  perhaps,  more  of  this  genuine  patriotism  in  the 


238  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

American  people  than  strangers,  or  even  we  ourselves,  commonly 
suppose.  The  foam  floats  on  the  surface,  and  is  whirled  hither  and 
thither  by  each  shifting  breeze,  but  below  are  the  sweet,  silent,  deep 
waters* 

It  may  be  said  that  war  is  unjustifiable,  because  if  all  would  prac- 
tise justice  there  could  be  no  war.  Undoubtedly,  if  all  men  and 
nations  were  wise  and  just,  wars  would  cease.  We  might  then,  in 
very  deed,  "  beat  our  swords  into  ploughshares  and  our  spears  into 
pruning-hooks,"  and  learn  war  no  more.  We  should  not  in  vision 
only,  but  in  reality,  possess  universal  peace.  So,  if  all  individuals 
understood  and  practised  the  moral  and  Christian  virtues  in  their 
perfection,  there  would  be  no  occasion  for  penal  codes,  and  a  police 
to  enforce  them.  If  no  wrongs  or  outrages  were  committed,  there 
would  be  none  to  be  repressed  or  punished.  If  there  were  no 
diseases,  there  would  be  none  to  cure.  If  the  world  were  quite 
another  world  than  it  is,  it  —  would  be.  But  so  long  as  the  world 
is  what  it  is,  so  long  as  men  fail  to  respect  the  rights  of  men,  the 
penal  code  and  police  will  be  necessary  ;  so  long  as  diseases  obtain, 
the  physician  and  his  drugs,  nauseous  as  they  are,  will  be  indispen- 
sable ;  and  so  long  as  nation  continues  to  encroach  on  nation,  the 
aggrieved  party  will  have  the  right  to  be  compelled  to  defend  and 
avenge  itself  by  an  appeal  to  arms,  terrible  as  that  appeal  may  be. 
The  evils  of  war  are  great,  but  not  the  greatest.  It  is  a  greater  evil 
to  lose  national  freedom,  to  become  the  tributaries  or  the  slaves  of 
the  foreigner,  to  see  the  sanctity  of  our  homes  invaded,  our  altars 
desecrated,  and  our  wives  and  children  made  the  prey  of  the  ruthless 
oppressor.  These  are  evils  which  do  not  die  with  us,  but  may  descend 
upon  our  posterity  through  all  coming  generations.  The  man  that 
will  look  tamely  on  and  see  altars  and  homes  denied,  all  that  is  sacred 
and  dear  wrested  from  him,  and  his  country  stricken  from  the  roll 
of  nations,  has  as  little  reason  to  applaud  himself  for  his  morals  as 
for  his  manhood.  No  doubt  philanthropy  may  weep  over  the 
wounded  and  the  dying,  but  it  is  no  great  evil.  It  is  appointed  unto 
all  men  to  die,  and,  so  far  as  the  death  itself  is  concerned,  it  matters 
not  whether  it  comes  a  few  months  earlier  or  a  few  months  later,  on 
the  battle-field  or  in  our  own  bed-chambers.  The  evil  is  not  in  dying, 
but  in  dying  unprepared.  If  prepared  —  and  the  soldier,  fighting  by 
command  of  his  country  in  her  cause,  may  be  prepared  —  it  is  of 
little  consequence  whether  the  death  may  come  in  the  sabre-cut  or 
leaden  bullet,  or  in  that  of  disease  or  old  age.  The  tears  of  the  sen- 


ROBERT  MONTGOMERY  BIRD.  239 

timentalist  are  lost  upon  him  who  is  conscious  of  his  responsibilities, 
that  he  is  commanded  to  place  duty  before  death,  and  to  weigh  no 
danger  against  fidelity  to  his  God  and  to  his  country.  Physical  pain 
is  not  worth  counting.  Accumulate  all  that  you  can  imagine,  — the 
Christian  greets  it  with  joy  when  it  lies  in  the  pathway  of  his  duty. 
He  who  cannot  take  his  life  in  his  hand,  and  pausing  not  for  an 
instant  before  the  accumulated  torture  of  years,  rush  in,  at  the  call 
of  duty,  where  blows  fall  thickest,  and  blows  fall  heaviest,  deserves 
rebuke  for  his  moral  weakness  rather  than  commendation  for  his 
peaceable  disposition. 


ROBERT   MONTGOMERY   BIRD. 

Robert  Montgomery  Bird  was  born  in  Newcastle,  Del.,  in  the  year  1803.  He  received 
his  classical  and  professional  education  in  Philadelphia,  and  for  many  years  resided  in  that 
city.  He  was  the  author  of  several  novels  of  more  than  ordinary  merit,  among  which  are, 
Calavar,  a  Tale  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico  ;  The  Infidel,  or  the  Fall  of  Mexico;  Nick  of 
the  Woods,  or  the  Jibbenainosay,  a  story  of  life  in  Kentucky  in  early  times ;  The  Ad- 
ventures of  Robin  Day.  He  wrote  three  tragedies,  one  of  which,  The  Gladiator,  has  been 
made  popular  by  the  acting  of  Mr.  Forrest.  The  tragedies  have  never  been  printed,  two 
of  them,  at  least,  being  Mr.  Forrest's  property.  Calavar  contains  many  beautiful  descrip- 
tive passages,  and  is  believed  to  present  a  faithful  picture  of  the  ancient  city  as  it  was  before 
the  conquest.  Nick  of  the  Woods  is  full  of  startling  border  adventures,  and,  though  it  has 
suffered  in  consequence  of  the  horde  of  later  imitations,  it  shows  originality  and  power  in  the 
author. 

Dr.  Bird  left  the  field  of  literature  at  an  early  age,  retired  to  his  native  place,  and  died 
there  in  January,  1854. 

[From  Calavar.] 
VIEW  OF  MEXICO  FROM  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

"  I  HAVE  heard  that  the  cold  which  freezes  men  to  death  begins  by 
setting  them  to  sleep.  Sleep  brings  dreams,  and  dreams  are  often 
most  vivid  and  fantastical  before  we  have  yet  been  wholly  lost  in 
slumber.  Perhaps  'tis  this  most  biting  and  benumbing  blast  that 
brings  me  such  phantoms.  Art  thou  not  very  cold  ?  "  "  Not  very, 
senor.  Methinks  we  are  descending ;  and  now  the  winds  are  not 
so  frigid  as  before."  "  I  would  to  Heaven,  for  the  sake  of  us  all,  that 
we  were  descended  yet  lower,  for  night  approaches,  and  still  we  are 
stumbling  among  these  clouds  that  seem  to  separate  us  from  earth, 
without  yet  advancing  us  nearer  to  heaven."  While  the  cavalier 
was  yet  speaking,  there  came  from  the  van  of  the  army,  very  far  in 
the  distance,  a  shout  of  joy,  that  was  caught  up  by  those  who  toiled 
in  his  neighborhood,  and  continued  by  the  squadrons  that  brought 
up  the  rear,  until  finally  lost  among  the  echoes  of  remote  cliffs.  He 


240       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

pressed  forward  with  the  animation  shared  by  his  companions,  and 
still  leading  Jacinto,  arrived  at  last  at  a  place  where  the  mountain 
dipped  downwards  with  so  sudden  and  so  precipitous  a  declivity  as 
to  interpose  no  obstacle  to  the  vision.  The  mists  were  rolling  away 
from  his  feet  in  huge  wreaths,  which  gradually,  as  they  became 
thinner,  received  and  transmitted  the  rays  of  an  evening  sun,  and 
were  lighted  up  with  a  golden  and  crimson  radiance  glorious  to  be- 
hold, and  increasing  every  moment  in  splendor.  As  this  superb  cur- 
tain was  parted  before  him,  as  if  by  cords  that  went  up  to  heaven, 
and  surged  voluminously  aside,  he  looked  over  the  heads  of  those 
that  thronged  the  side  of  the  mountain  beneath,  and  saw,  stretching 
away  like  a  picture  touched  by  the  hands  of  angels,  the  fair  valley 
imbosomed  among  those  romantic  hills,  whose  shadows  were  steal- 
ing visibly  over  its  western  slopes,  but  leaving  all  the  eastern  por- 
tion dyed  with  the  tints  of  sunset.  The  green  plains,  studded  with 
yet  greener  woodlands  ;  the  little  mountains  raising  their  fairy-like 
crests ;  the  lovely  lakes,  now  gleaming  like  floods  of  molten  silver, 
where  they  stretched  into  the  sunshine,  and  now  vanishing  away, 
in  a  shadowy  expanse,  under  the  gloom  of  the  growing  twilight ; 
the  structures  that  rose  vaguely  and  obscurely,  here  from  their  ver- 
dant margins,  and  there  from  their  very  bosom,  as  if  floating  on 
their  placid  waters,  seeming  at  one  time  to  present  the  image  of  a 
city  crowned  with  towers  and  pinnacles,  and  then  broken  by  some 
agitation  of  the  element,  or  confused  by  some  vapor  swimming 
through  the  atmosphere  into  the  mere  fragments  and  phantasms 
of  edifices,  —  these,  seen  in  that  uncertain  and  fading  light,  and  at 
that  misty  and  enchanting  distance,  unfolded  such  a  spectacle  of 
beauty  and  peace,  as  plunged  the  neophyte  into  a  reverie  of  rapture. 
The  trembling  of  the  page's  hand,  a  deep  sigh  that  breathed  from 
his  lips,  recalled  him  to  consciousness,  without,  however,  dispelling 
his  delight.  "  By  the  cross  which  I  worship,"  he  cried,  "  it  fills 
me  with  amazement  to  think  that  this  cursed  and  malefactious 
earth  doth  contain  a  spot  that  is  so  much  like  a  paradise.  Now 
do  I  remember  me  of  the  words  of  the  Senor  Gomez,  that  no  man 
could  conceive  of  heaven  till  he  had  looked  upon  the  valley  of 
Mexico  —  an  expression  which  at  that  time  I  considered  very 
absurd,  and  somewhat  profane  ;  yet,  if  I  am  not  now  mistaken,  I 
shall  henceforth,  doubtless,  when  figuring  to  my  imagination  the 
seats  of  bliss,  begin  by  thinking  of  this  very  prospect." 


S4i 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 

' 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE."^ 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  was  born  in  Salem,  Mass.,  July  4,  1804.  His  father,  a  shipmaster, 
died  in  Havana  when  the  future  author  was  six  years  old.  At  the  age  of  ten,  on  account 
of  feeble  health,  he  was  sent  to  live  on  a  farm  in  Maine.  Pie  entered  Bowdoin  College,  and 
received  his  degree  in  1825.  His  first  publication  was  a  collection  of  stories  he  had  written 
for  periodicals,  entitled  Twice-told  Tales.  It  appeared  in  1837,  an(^  though  it  was  praised 
by  the  author's  classmate,  Longfellow,  and  by  other  friends,  it  made  no  impression  upon  the 
public.  A  fact  like  this  causes  no  surprise  to  those  familiar  with  the  history  of  literature. 
A  second  volume  appeared  in  1842.  From  1838  to  1841  he  held  a  subordinate  office  in  the 
Boston  custom-house.  He  joined  the  Brook  Farm  association,  in  West  Roxbury,  aftor 
leaving  the  custom-house,  and  the  fruit  of  his  experience  appeared  some  time  after  (1852) 
in  the  Blithedale  Romance.  He  did  not  remain  with  the  association  long,  but  married  and 
took  up  his  residence  at  Concord,  in  the  old  parsonage  house,  which  has  been  made  historic 
by  his  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse.  In  1846  he  was  appointed  surveyor  of  the  port  of 
Salem,  and,  while  residing  there,  wrote  the  romance  which  established  his  reputation.  This 
was  The  Scarlet  Letter,  probably  the  most  imaginative,  picturesque,  and  powerful  work  of 
the  kind  in  this  century.  The  introduction  to  the  romance  contains  a  series  of  portraits  of 
the  superannuated  and  decayed  officials  whom  he  found  on  duty  in  the  custom-house.  There 
is  no  denying  the  sharpness  and  vigor  of  these  sketches,  but,  as  the  subjects  of  them  were 
still  living,  the  operation  was  as  cruel  as  the  experiments  of  Magendie  in  vivisection.  In 
1849,  having  lost  his  office  by  the  change  in  politics,  he  removed  to  Lenox,  where  he  wrote 
The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  which  appeared  in  1851.  In  1852  he  returned  to  Concord, 
and  there  he  wrote  the  biography  of  his  college  friend,  Franklin  Pierce,  then  a  candidate 
for  the  presidency.  Mr.  Pierce,  upon  his  accession  to  office,  gave  him  the  place  of  consul  to 
Liverpool.  In  1857  our  author  resigned  his  office,  and  travelled  upon  the  continent.  Upon 
his  return  home  he  published  an  Italian  romance,  called  The  Marble  Faun,  in  1860;  also 
a  volume  of  his  impressions  of  England,  under  the  title  of  Our  Old  Home,  1863.  He  wrote 
also,  at  different  times,  several  juvenile  works,  which  bear  the  unmistakable  stamp  of  his 
genius ;  among  them  are,  The  Snow  Image,  The  Wonder  Book,  Tanglewood  Tales,  and 
True  Stories  from  History  and  Biography.  His  complete  works  are  published  by  Messrs. 
].  R.  Osgood  &  Co.,  Boston. 

He  died  at  Plymouth,  N.  H.,  May  19,  1864,  whither  he  had  gone  for  recreation,  in  com- 
pany with  his  friend,  Ex-President  Pierce. 

Since  his  death,  six  volumes  of  his  Note  Books  have  been  published,  and  a  posthumous 
romance,  entitled  Septimius  Felton,  has  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 

Nothing  could  be  more  remote  from  the  ordinary  pictures  of  life  and  manners  as  shown  in 
the  modern  novel,  than  the  romances  of  Hawthorne.  Boston,  as  he  paints  it,  is  as  far  away 
as  old  Troy.  They  are  striking  and  life-like  figures  which  we  see  involved  in  the  magical 
web  of  his  story,  but  the  art  of  the  romancer  throws  upon  them  a  film  of  distance,  so  that 
we  seem  contemplating  phantasms.  An  air  of  mystery  broods  over  every  scene,  whether  it 
is  in  a  many-gabled  house  or  in  the  depths  of  the  original  forest.  The  reader  feels  a  tingling 
in  the  silence  of  his  room,  as  in  the  days  when  his  boyish  terrors  were  roused  by  stories  of 
ghosts.  He  feels  that  he  is  entering  a  realm  over  which  shines  a 

"light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land," 

where  the  flowers  are  like  their  semblances  in  wax,  where  the  sounds  of  laughter  have 
ceased  to  echo,  and  where  the  grave  people,  each  burdened  with  his  sin  or  his  sorrow,  walk 
about  like  the  unresting  throng  in  the  hall  of  Eblis,  each  holding  his  hand  over  his  ever- 
burning heart.  But  all  is  managed  with  such  profound  art,  and  with  such  an  exquisite 
mastery  of  language,  that  the  fascination  of  the  story  can  neither  be  questioned  nor 
resisted. 

16 


242       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Shakespeare,  Scott,  and  Dickens  create  characters,  and  place  them  before  us  clothed  in 
their  proper  figures,  and  using  their  proper  and  characteristic  speech.  Hawthorne  reverses 
the  process,  and  taking  the  ideal  person  for  granted,  shows  him  as  upon  a  dissecting  table, 
and  lays  bare  every  throbbing  nerve  and  every  secret  fibre  of  his  soul. 

The  judicious  critic  in  time  comes  to  hesitate  about  giving  estimates  of  greater  and  less. 
It  is  not  easy  to  compare  the  dissimilar,  but  convenient  rather  to  take  refuge  in  the  saying 
of  Paul,  "One  star  differeth  from  another  star  in  glory."  The  genius  of  Hawthorne  was 
unique  ;  as  the  Germans  say  of  Jean  Paul  Richter,  he  was  HaiutJiorne  tfie  Only:  his  niche 
in  the  temple  of  fame  will  not  be  claimed  by  another. 

[From  Twice-told  Tales.] 
DAVID   SWAN.  —  A   FANTASY. 

WE  can  be  but  partially  acquainted  even  with  the  events  which 
actually  influence  our  course  through  life,  and  our  final  destiny. 
There  are  innumerable  other  events  —  if  such  they  may  be  called  — 
which  come  close  upon  us,  yet  pass  away  without  actual  results, 
or  even  betraying  their  near  approach,  by  the  reflection  of  any  light 
or  shadow  across  our  minds.  Could  we  know  all  the  vicissitudes 
of  our  fortunes,  life  would  be  too  full  of  hope  and  fear,  exultation 
or  disappointment,  to  afford  us  a  single  hour  of  true  serenity.  This 
idea  may  be  illustrated  by  a  page  from  the  secret  history  of  David 
Swan. 

We  have  nothing  to  do  with  David  until  we  find  him,  at  the  age 
of  twenty,  on  the  high  road  from  his  native  place  to  the  city  of 
Boston,  where  his  uncle,  a  small  dealer  in  the  grocery  line,  was  to 
take  him  behind  the  counter.  Be  it  enough  to  say,  that  he  was  a 
native  of  New  Hampshire,  born  of  respectable  parents,  and  had 
received  an  ordinary  school  education,  with  a  classic  finish  by  a  year 
at  Gilmanton  Academy.  After  journeying  on  foot  from  sunrise  till 
nearly  noon  of  a  summer's  day,  his  weariness  and  the  increasing 
heat  determined  him  to  sit  down  in  the  first  convenient  shade,  and 
await  the  coming  up  of  the  stage  coach.  As  if  planted  on  purpose 
for  him,  there  soon  appeared  a  little  tuft  of  maples,  with  a  delight- 
ful recess  in  the  midst,  and  such  a  fresh,  bubbling  spring,  that  it 
seemed  never  to  have  sparkled  for  any  wayfarer  but  David  Swan. 
Virgin  or  not,  he  kissed  it  with  his  thirsty  lips,  and  then  flung  him- 
self along  the  brink,  pillowing  his  head  upon  some  shirts  and  a 
pair  of  pantaloons,  tied  up  in  a  striped  cotton  handkerchief.  The 
sunbeams  could  not  reach  him  ;  the  dust  did  not  yet  rise  from  the 
road,  after  the  heavy  rain  of  yesterday ;  and  his  grassy  lair  suited 
the  young  man  better  than  a  bed  of  down.  The  spring  murmured 
drowsily  beside  him ;  the  branches  waved  dreamily  across  the  blue 
sky  overhead  ;  and  a  deep  sleep,  perchance  hiding  dreams  within 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE,  243 

its  depths,  fell  upon  David  Swan.  But  we  are  to  relate  events  which 
he  did  not  dream  of. 

While  he  lay  sound  asleep  in  the  shade,  other  people  were  wide 
awake,  and  passed  to  and  fro,  afoot,  on  horseback,  and  in  all  sorts 
of  vehicles,  along  the  sunny  road  by  his  bed-chamber.  Some  looked 
neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  the  left,  and  knew  not  that  he  was 
there ;  some  merely  glanced  that  way  without  admitting  the  slum- 
berer  among  their  busy  thoughts  ;  some  laughed  to  see  how  soundly 
he  slept ;  and  several,  whose  hearts  were  brimming  full  of  scorn, 
ejected  their  venomous  superfluity  on  David  Swan.  A  middle-aged 
widow,  when  nobody  else  was  near,  thrust  her  head  a  little  way  into 
the  recess,  and  vowed  that  the  young  fellow  looked  charming  in  his 
sleep.  A  temperance  lecturer  saw  him,  and  wrought  poor  David 
into  the  texture  of  his  evening's  discourse  as  an  awful  instance  of  dead 
drunkenness  by  the  road-side.  But  censure,  praise,  merriment,  scorn, 
and  indifference,  were  all  one,  or  rather  all  nothing,  to  David  Swan. 

He  had  slept  only  a  few  moments,  when  a  brown  carriage,  drawn 
by  a  handsome  pair  of  horses,  bowled  easily  along,  and  was  brought 
to  a  stand-still  nearly  in  front  of  David's  resting-place.  A  linchpin 
had  fallen  out,  and  permitted  one  of  the  wheels  to  slide  off.  The 
damage  was  slight,  and  occasioned  merely  a  momentary  alarm  to  an 
elderly  merchant  and  his  wife,  who  were  returning  to  Boston  in  the 
carriage.  While  the  coachman  and  a  servant  were  replacing  the 
wheel,  the  lady  and  gentleman  sheltered  themselves  beneath  the 
maple  trees,  and  there  espied  the  bubbling  fountain,  and  David  Swan 
asleep  beside  it.  Impressed  with  the  awe  which  the  humblest 
sleeper  usually  sheds  around  him,  the  merchant  trod  as  lightly  as 
the  gout  would  allow  ;  and  his  spouse  took  good  heed  not  to  rustle 
her  silk  gown  lest  David  should  start  up  all  of  a  sudden. 

"  How  soundly  he  sleeps  !  "  whispered  the  old  gentleman.  "  From 
what  a  depth  he  draws  that  easy  breath  !  Such  sleep  as  that, 
brought  on  without  an  opiate,  would  be  worth  more  to  me  than  half 
my  income,  for  it  would  support  health  and  an  untroubled  mind." 

"  And  youth  besides,"  said  the  lady.  "  Healthy  and  quiet  age 
does  not  sleep  thus.  Our  slumber  is  no  more  like  this  than  our 
wakefulness." 

The  longer  they  looked  the  more  did  this  elderly  couple  feel  in- 
terested in  the  unknown  youth,  to  whom  the  wayside  and  a  maple 
shade  were  as  a  secret  chamber,  with  the  rich  gloom  of  damask  cur- 
tains brooding  over  him. 

Perceiving  that  a  stray  sunbeam  glimmered  down  upon  his  face, 


244  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

the  lady  contrived  to  twist  a  branch  aside,  so  as  to  intercept  it ;  and 
having  done  this  little  act  of  kindness,  she  began  to  feel  like  a 
mother  to  him. 

"  Providence  seems  to  have  laid  him  here,"  whispered  she  to  her 
husband,  "  and  to  have  brought  us  hither  to  find  him,  after  our  dis- 
appointment in  our  cousin's  son.  Methinks  I  can  see  a  likeness  to 
our  departed  Henry.  Shall  we  wake  him  ?  " 

"  To  what  purpose  ?  "  said  the  merchant,  hesitating.  "  We  know 
nothing  of  the  youth's  character." 

"  That  open  countenance  !  "  replied  his  wife,  in  the  same  hushed 
voice,  yet  earnestly.  "  This  innocent  sleep  !  " 

While  these  whispers  were  passing,  the  sleeper's  heart  did  not 
throb,  nor  his  breath  become  agitated,  nor  his  features  betray  the 
least  token  of  interest ;  yet  Fortune  was  bending  over  him,  just 
ready  to  let  fall  a  burden  of  gold.  The  old  merchant  had  lost  his 
only  son,  and  had  no  heir  to  his  wealth,  except  a  distant  relative, 
with  whose  conduct  he  was  dissatisfied.  In  such  cases,  people 
sometimes  do  stranger  things  than  to  act  the  magician,  and  awaken 
a  young  man  to  splendor,  who  fell  asleep  in  poverty. 

"  Shall  we  not  waken  him  ?  "  repeated  the  lady,  persuasively. 

"  The  coach  is  ready,  sir,"  said  the  servant,  behind. 

The  old  couple  started,  reddened,  and  hurried  away,  mutually 
wondering  that  they  should  ever  have  dreamed  of  doing  anything 
so  very  ridiculous.  The  merchant  threw  himself  back  in  the  car- 
riage, and  occupied  his  mind  with  the  plan  of  a  magnificent  asylum 
for  unfortunate  men  of  business.  Meanwhile  David  Swan  enjoyed 
his  nap. 

The  carriage  could  not  have  gone  above  a  mile  or  two,  when  a 
pretty  young  girl  came  along,  with  a  tripping  pace,  which  showed 
precisely  how  her  little  heart  was  dancing  in  her  bosom.  Perhaps 
it  was  this  merry  kind  of  motion  that  caused  —  is  there  any  harm  in 
saying  it  ?  —  her  garter  to  slip  its  knot.  Conscious  that  the  silken 
girth  —  if  silk  it  were  —  was  relaxing  its  hold,  she  turned  aside  into 
the  shelter  of  the  maple  trees,  and  there  found  a  young  man  asleep 
by  the  spring  !  Blushing  as  red  as  any  rose,  that  she  should  have 
intruded  into  a  gentleman's  bedchamber,  and  for  such  a  purpose, 
too,  she  was  about  to  make  her  escape  on  tiptoe.  But  there  was 
peril  near  the  sleeper.  A  monster  of  a  bee  had  been  wandering 
overhead,  —  buzz,  buzz,  buzz,  —  now  among  the  leaves,  now  flashing 
through  the  strips  of  sunshine,  and  now  lost  in  the  dark  shade, 
till  finally  he  appeared  to  be  settling  on  the  eyelid  of  David  Swan. 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE.  245 

The  sting  of  a  bee  is  sometimes  deadly.  As  free-hearted  as  she 
was  innocent,  the  girl  attacked  the  intruder  with  her  handkerchief, 
brushed  him  soundly,  and  drove  him  from  beneath  the  maple 
shade.  How  sweet  a  picture  !  This  good  deed  accomplished, 
with  quickened  breath,  and  a  deeper  blush,  she  stole  a  glance  at 
the  youthful  stranger,  for  whom  she  had  been  battling  with  a 
dragon  in  the  air. 

"  He  is  handsome  !  "  thought  she,  and  blushed  redder  yet. 

How  could  it  be  that  no  dream  of  bliss  grew  so  strong  within 
him  that,  shattered  by  its  very  strength,  it  should  part  asunder, 
and  allow  him  to  perceive  the  girl  among  its  phantoms  ?  Why, 
at  least,  did  no  smile  of  welcome  brighten  upon  his  face  ?  She  was 
come,  the  maid  whose  soul,  according  to  the  old  and  beautiful 
idea,  had  been  severed  from  his  own,  and  whom,  in  all  his  vague 
but  passionate  desires,  he  yearned  to  meet.  Her  only  could  he  love 
with  a  perfect  love  ;  him  only  could  she  receive  into  the  depths 
of  her  heart ;  and  now  her  image  was  faintly  blushing  in  the  foun- 
tain by  his  side  :  should  it  pass  away,  its  happy  lustre  would  never 
gleam  upon  his  life  again. 

"  How  sound  he  sleeps  !  "  murmured  the  girl. 

She  departed,  but  did  not  trip  along  the  road  so  lightly  as  when 
she  came. 

Now  this  girl's  father  was  a  thriving  country  merchant  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  happened,  at  that  identical  time,  to  be  looking 
out  for  just  such  a  young  man  as  David  Swan.  Had  David  formed 
a  wayside  acquaintance  with  the  daughter,  he  would  have  become 
the  father's  clerk,  and  all  else  in  natural  succession.  So  here,  again, 
had  good  fortune  —  the  best  of  fortunes  —  stolen  so  near  that  her 
garments  brushed  against  him  ;  and  he  knew  nothing  of  the  matter. 

The  girl  was  hardly  out  of  sight,  when  two  men  turned  aside  be- 
neath the  maple  shade.  Both  had  dark  faces,  set  off  by  cloth  caps, 
which  were  drawn  dbwn  aslant  over  their  brows.  Their  dresses 
were  shabby,  yet  had  a  certain  smartness.  These  were  a  couple  of 
rascals,  who  got  their  living  by  whatever  the  devil  sent  them,  and 
now,  in  the  interim  of  other  business,  had  staked  the  joint  profits 
of  their  next  piece  of  villany  on  a  game  of  cards,  which  was  to  have 
been  decided  here  under  the  trees.  But  finding  David  asleep  by  the 
spring,  one  of  the  rogues  whispered  to  his  fellow,  — 

"  Hist !     Do  you  see  that  bundle  under  his  head  ?  " 

The  other  villain  nodded,  winked,  and  leered. 

"  I'll  bet  you  a  horn  of  brandy,"  said  the  first,  "that  the  chap  has 


246  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

either  a  pocket-book,  or  a  snug  little  hoard  of  small  change,  stowed 
away  amongst  his  shirts.  And  if  not  there,  we  shall  find  it  in  his 
pantaloons  pocket." 

"  But  what  if  he  wakes  ?  "  said  the  other. 

His  companion  thrust  aside  his  waistcoat,  pointed  to  the  handle 
of  a  dirk,  and  nodded. 

"  So  be  it,"  muttered  the  second  villain. 

They  approached  the  unconscious  David,  and,  while  one  pointed 
the  dagger  towards  his  heart,  the  other  began  to  search  the  bundle 
beneath  his  head.  Their  two  faces,  grim,  wrinkled,  and  ghastly  with 
guilt  and  fear,  bent  over  their  victim,  looking  horrible  enough  to  be 
mistaken  for  fiends,  should  he  suddenly  awake.  Nay,  had  the  villains 
glanced  aside  into  the  spring,  even  they  would  hardly  have  known 
themselves  as  reflected  there.  But  David  Swan  had  never  worn  a 
more  tranquil  aspect,  even  when  asleep  on  his  mother's  breast. 

"  I  must  take  away  the  bundle,"  whispered  one. 
~"  If  he  stirs  I'll  strike,"  muttered  the  other. 

But  at  this  moment  a  dog,  scenting  along  the  ground,  came  in 
beneath  the  maple  trees,  and  gazed  alternately  at  eacli  of  these  wicked 
men,  and  then  at  the  quiet  sleeper.  He  then  lapped  out  of  the 
fountain. 

"  Pshaw ! "  said  one  villain.  "  We  can  do  nothing  now.  The 
dog's  master  must  be  close  behind." 

"  Let's  take  a  drink  and  be  off,"  said  the  other. 

The  man  with  the  dagger  thrust  back  the  weapon  into  his  bosom, 
and  drew  forth  a  pocket  pistol,  but  not  of  that  kind  which  kills  by  a 
single  discharge.  It  was  a  flask  of  liquor,  with  a  block-tin  tumbler 
screwed  upon  the  mouth.  Each  drank  a  comfortable  dram,  and  left 
the  spot,  with  so  many  jests,  and  such  laughter  at  their  unaccom- 
plished wickedness,  that  they  might  be  said  to  have  gone  on  their 
way  rejoicing.  In  a  few  hours  they  had  forgotten  the  whole  affair, 
nor  once  imagined  that  the  recording  angel  had  written  down  the 
crime  of  murder  against  their  souls,  in  letters  as  durable  as  eternity. 
As  for  David  Swan,  he  still  slept  quietly,  neither  conscious  of  the 
shadow  of  death  when  it  hung  over  him,  nor  of  the  glow  of  renewed 
life  when  that  shadow  was  withdrawn. 

He  slept,  but  no  longer  so  quietly  as  at  first.  An  hour's  repose 
had  snatched,  from  his  elastic  frame,  the  weariness  with  which  many 
hours  of  toil  had  burdened  it.  Now  he  stirred  ;  now  moved  his  lips, 
without  a  sound ;  now  talked,  in  an  inward  tone,  to  the  noonday 
spectres  of  his  dream.  But  a  noise  of  wheels  came  rattling  louder 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 

and  louder  along  the  road,  until  it  dashed  through  the  dispersing 
mist  of  David's  slumber  —  and  there  was  the  stage  coach.  He 
started  up,  with  all  his  ideas  about  him. 

"  Halloo,  driver  !     Take  a  passenger  ?  "  shouted  he. 

"  Room  on  top,"  answered  the  driver. 

Up  mounted  David,  and  bowled  away  merrily  towards  Boston, 
without  so  much  as  a  parting  glance  at  that  fountain  of  dream-like 
vicissitude.  He  knew  not  that  a  phantom  of  Wealth  had  thrown  a 
golden  hue  upon  its  waters,  nor  that  one  of  Love  had  sighed  softly 
to  their  murmur,  nor  that  one  of  Death  had  threatened  to  crimson 
them  with  his  blood  —  all,  in  the  brief  hour  since  he  lay  down  to 
sleep.  Sleeping  or  waking,  we  hear  not  the  airy  footsteps  of  the 
strange  things  that  almost  happen.  Does  it  not  argue  a  superin- 
tending Providence,  that,  while  viewless  and  unexpected  events 
thrust  themselves  continually  athwart  our  path,  there  should  still 
be  regularity  enough,  in  mortal  life,  to  render  foresight  even  par- 
tially available  ? 

[From  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse.] 
DESCRIPTION   OF   THE   MANSE. 

BETWEEN  two  tall  gate-posts  of  rough-hewn  stone  (the  gate  itself 
having  fallen  from  its  hinges  at  some  unknown  epoch),  we  beheld 
the  gray  front  of  the  old  parsonage,  terminating  the  vista  of  an 
avenue  of  black  ash  trees.  It  was  now  a  twelvemonth  since  the 
funeral  procession  of  the  venerable  clergyman,  its  last  inhabitant, 
had  turned  from  that  gateway  towards  the  village  bury  ing-ground. 
The  wheel  track,  leading  to  the  door,  as  well  as  the  whole  breadth 
of  the  avenue,  was  almost  overgrown  with  grass,  affording  dainty 
mouthfuls  to  two  or  three  vagrant  cows  and  an  old  white  horse,  who 
had  his  own  living  to  pick  up  along  the  roadside.  The  glimmering 
shadows,  that  lay  half  asleep  between  the  door  of  the  house  and  the 
public  highway,  were  a  kind  of  spiritual  medium,  seen  through  which, 
the  edifice  had  not  quite  the  aspect  of  belonging  to  the  material 
world.  Certainly  it  had  little  in  common  with  those  ordinary  abodes, 
which  stand  so  imminent  upon  (the  road  that  every  passer-by  can 
thrust  his  head,  as  it  were,  into  the  domestic  circle.  From  these 
quiet  windows  the  figures  of  passing  travellers  looked  too  remote 
and  dim  to  disturb  the  sense  of  privacy.  In  its  near  retirement  and 
accessible  seclusion,  it  was  the  very  spot  for  the  residence  of  a  cler- 
gyman ;  a  man  not  estranged  from  human  life,  yet  enveloped,  in  the 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

midst  of  it,  with  a  veil  woven  of  intermingled  gloom  and  brightness. 
It  was  worthy  to  have  been  one  of  the  time-honored  parsonages  of 
England,  in  which,  through  many  generations,  a  succession  of  holy 
occupants  pass  from  youth  to  age,  and  bequeath  each  an  inheritance 
of  sanctity  to  pervade  the  house  and  hover  over  it,  as  with  an  at- 
mosphere. .  .  . 

In  furtherance  of  my  design,  and  as  if  to  leave  me  no  pretext  for 
not  fulfilling  it,  there  was,  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  the  most  delight- 
ful little  nook  of  a  study  that  ever  offered  its  snug  seclusion  to  a 
scholar.  It  was  here  that  Emerson  wrote  "  Nature  ;  "  for  he  was 
then  an  inhabitant  of  the  Manse,  and  used  to  watch  the  Assyrian 
dawn  and  the  Paphian  sunset  and  moonrise,  from  the  summit  of  our 
eastern  hill.  When  I  first  saw  the  room,  its  walls  were  blackened 
with  the  smoke  of  unnumbered  years,  and  made  still  blacker  by  the 
grim  prints  of  Puritan  ministers  that  hung  around.  These  worthies 
looked  strangely  like  bad  angels,  or,  at  least,  like  men  who  had 
wrestled  so  continually  and  so  sternly  with  the  devil,  that  somewhat 
of  his  sooty  fierceness  had  been  imparted  to  their  own  visages. 
They  had  all  vanished  now ;  a  cheerful  coat  of  paint,  and  golden- 
tinted  paper  hangings,  lighted  up  the  small  apartment,  while  the 
shadow  of  a  willow  tree,  that  swept  against  the  overhanging  eaves, 
attempered  the  cheery  western  sunshine.  In  place  of  the  grim 
prints,  there  was  the  sweet  and  lovely  head  of  one  of  Raphael's 
Madonnas,  and  two  pleasant  little  pictures  of  the  Lake  of  Como. 
The  only  other  decorations  were  a  purple  vase  of  flowers,  always 
fresh,  and  a  bronze  one  containing  graceful  ferns.  My  books  —  few, 
and  by  no  means  choice,  for  they  were  chiefly  such  waifs  as  chance 
had  thrown  in  my  way  • —  stood  in  order  about  the  room,  seldom  to 
be  disturbed. 

The  study  had  three  windows,  set  with  little  old  fashioned  panes 
of  glass,  each  with  a  crack  across  it.  The  two  on  the  western  side 
looked,  or  rather  peeped,  between  the  willow  branches,  down  into 
the  orchard,  with  glimpses  of  the  river  through  the  trees.  The  third, 
facing  northward,  commanded  a  broader  view  of  the  river,  at  a  spot 
where  its  hitherto  obscure  waters  gleam  forth  into  the  light  of  his- 
tory. It  was  at  this  window  that  tbe  clergyman,  who  then  dwelt  in 
the  Manse,  stood  watching  the  outbreak  of  a  long  and  deadly  strug- 
gle between  two  nations.  He  saw  the  irregular  array  of  his  parish- 
ioners on  the  farther  side  of  the  river,  and  the  glittering  line  of  the 
British  on  the  hither  bank  ;  he  awaited,  in  an  agony  of  suspense,  the 
rattle  of  the  musketry.  It  came  —  and  there  needed  but  a  gentle 
wind  to  sweep  the  battle  smoke  around  this  quiet  house.  .  .  . 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE.  249 

Come  ;  we  have  pursued  a  somewhat  devious  track  in  our  walk  to 
the  battle-ground.  Here  we  are,  at  the  point  where  the  river  was 
crossed  by  the  old  bridge,  the  possession  of  which  was  the  immedi- 
ate object  of  the  contest.  On  the  hither  side  grow  two  or  three  elms, 
throwing  a  wide  circumference  of  shade,  but  which  must  have  been 
planted  at  some  period  within  the  threescore  years  and  ten  that 
have  passed  since  the  battle-day.  On  the  farther  shore,  overhung 
by  a  clump  of  elder-bushes,  we  discern  the  stone  abutment  of  the 
bridge.  Looking  down  into  the  river,  I  once  discovered  some  heavy 
fragment  of  the  timbers,  all  green  with  half  a  century's  growth  of 
water-moss  ;  for,  during  that  length  of  time,  the  tramp  of  horses 
and  human  footsteps  have  ceased  along  this  ancient  highway.  The 
stream  has  here  about  the  breadth  of  twenty  strokes  of  a  swimmer's 
arm  —  a  space  not  too  wide,  when  the  bullets  were  whistling  across. 
Old  people,  who  dwell  hereabouts,  will  point  out  the  very  spots,  on 
the  western  bank,  where  our  countrymen  fell  down  and  died  ;  and, 
on  this  side  of  the  river,  an  obelisk  of  granite  has  grown  up  from  the 
soil  that  was  fertilized  with  British  blood. 


ASSABETH   RIVER. 

OR  it  might  be  that  Ellery  Channing  came  up  the  avenue,  to  join 
me  in  a  fishing  excursion  on  the  river.  Strange  and  happy  times 
were  those,  when  we  cast  aside  all  irksome  forms  and  straitlaced 
habitudes,  and  delivered  ourselves  up  to  the  free  air,  to  live  like  the 
Indians,  or  any  less  conventional  race,  during  one  bright  semicircle 
of  the  sun.  Rowing  our  boat  against  the  current,  between  wide 
meadows,  we  turned  aside  into  the  Assabeth.  A  more  lonely  stream 
than  this,  for  a  mile  above  its  junction  with  the  Concord,  has  never 
flowed  on  earth  —  nowhere,  indeed,  except  to  lave  the  interior  regions 
of  a  poet's  imagination.  It  is  sheltered  from  the  breeze  by  woods 
and  a  hillside,  so  that  elsewhere  there  might  be  a  hurricane,  and 
here  scarcely  a  ripple  across  the  shaded  water.  The  current  lingers 
along  so  gently,  that  the  mere  force  of  the  boatman's  will  seems  suf- 
ficient to  propel  his  craft  against  it.  It  comes  flowing  softly  through 
the  midmost  privacy  and  deepest  heart  of  a  wood,  which  whispers 
it  to  be  quiet,  while  the  stream  whispers  back  again  from  its 
sedgy  borders,  as  if  river  and  wood  were  hushing  one  another  to 
sleep.  .  .  . 

We  drew  up  our  skiff  at  some  point  where  the  overarching  shade 
formed  a  natural  bower,  and  there  kindled  a  fire  with  the  pine-cones 


25O  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

and  decayed  branches  that  lay  strewn  plentifully  around.  Soon  the 
smoke  ascended  among  the  trees,  impregnated  with  a  savory  incense, 
not  heavy,  dull,  and  surfeiting,  like  the  steam  of  cookery  within 
doors,  but  sprightly  and  piquant.  The  smell  of  our  feast  was  akin 
to  the  woodland  odors  with  which  it  mingled  ;  there  was  no  sacrilege 
committed  by  our  intrusion  there  ;  the  sacred  solitude  was  hospita- 
ble, and  granted  us  free  leave  to  cook  and  eat,  in  the  recess  that  was 
at  once  our  kitchen  and  banqueting  hall.  It  is  strange  what  humble 
offices  may  be  performed,  in  a  beautiful  scene,  without  destroying 
its  poetry.  Our  fire,  red  gleaming  among  the  trees,  and  we  beside 
it,  busied  with  culinary  rites  and  spreading  out  our  meal  on  a  moss- 
grown  log,  all  seemed  in  unison  with  the  river  gliding  by,  and  the 
foliage  rustling  over  us.  And,  what  was  strangest,  neither  did  our 
mirth  seem  to  disturb  the  propriety  of  the  solemn  woods  ;  although 
the  hobgoblins  of  the  old  wilderness,  and  the  will-o'-the-wisps  that 
glimmered  in  the  ma"rshy  places,  might  have  come  trooping  to  share 
our  table-talk,  and  have  added  their  shrill  laughter  to  our  merriment. 
It  was  the  very  spot  in  which  to  utter  the  extremest  nonsense,  or 
the  profoundest  wisdom  —  or  that  ethereal  product  of  the  mind  which 
partakes  of  both,  and  may  become  one  or  the  other,  in  correspond- 
ence with  the  faith  and  insight  of  the  auditor.  .  .  . 

I  have  forgotten  whether  the  song  of  the  cricket  be  not  as  early  a 
token  of  autumn's  approach  as  any  other,  —  that  song,  which  may 
be  called  an  audible  stillness  ;  for.  though  very  loud  and  heard  afar, 
yet  the  mind  does  not  take  note  of  it  as  a  sound,  so  completely  is  its 
individual  existence  merged  among  the  accompanying  characteris- 
tics of  the  season.  Alas  !  for  the  pleasant  summer-time  !  In  August, 
the  grass  is  still  verdant  on  the  hills  and  in  the  valleys  ;  the  foliage 
of  the  trees  is  as  dense  as  ever,  and  as  green  ;  the  flowers  gleam 
forth  in  richer  abundance  along  the  margin  of  the  river,  and  by  the 
stone  walls,  and  deep  among  the  woods  ;  the  days,  too,  are  as  fervid 
now  as  they  were  a  month  ago,  —  and  yet,  in  every  breath  of  wind, 
and  in  every  beam  of  sunshine,  we  hear  the  whispered  farewell,  and 
behold  the  parting  smile,  of  a  dear  friend.  There  is  a  coolness  amid 
all  the  heat ;  a  mildness  in  the  blazing  noon.  Not  a  breeze  can  stir 
but  it  thrills  us  with  the  breath  of  autumn.  A  pensive  glory  is  seen 
in  the  far  golden  gleams,  among  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  The 
flowers  —  even  the  brightest  of  them,  and  they  are  the  most  gor- 
geous of  the  year  —  have  this  gentle  sadness  wedded  to  their  pomp, 
and  typify  the  character  of  the  delicious  time,  each  within  itself. 
The  brilliant  Cardinal  flower  has  never  seemed  gay  to  me. 


WILLIAM    R.    WILLIAMS.  25  I 


WILLIAM   R.  WILLIAMS. 

William  R.  Williams  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  October  14,  1804,  and  was  grad- 
uated at  Columbia  College  in  1822.  He  pursued  the  study  of  the  law  for  three  years,  and 
commenced  practice  with  bright  prospects ;  but  he  gave  up  the  profession  he  had  chosen, 
and  became  a  minister  in  the  Baptist  denomination.  He  was  settled  as  pastor  of  the 
Amity  Street  Baptist  Church,  in  New  York,  in  1831,  and  still  remains  in  that  position.  His 
sermons  are  remarkable  for  their  vigor  and  directness  of  style,  and  exhibit  the  results  of  a 
wide  range  of  reading  in  general  literature,  as  well  as  in  ecclesiastical  history  and  doctrines. 
He  has  published  a  collection  of  miscellanies,  entitled  The  Conservative  Principle  in  Litera- 
ture, and  other  essays  (1850),  Lectures  on  the  Lord's  Prayer  (1851),  Religious  Progress 
(1851),  besides  a  number  of  occasional  discourses.  A  sermon  preached  by  him  during  the 
late  civil  war  attracted  considerable  attention.  An  article  on  Pascal,  in  the  Baptist  Quar- 
terly, January,  1872,  may  be  cited  as  a  specimen  of  a  clear  and  attractive  style  of  narration, 
and  an  admirable  summary  of  character. 

The  long  service  of  this  eminent  divine  in  one  church,  although  he  has  frequently  declined 
offers  to  fill  more  conspicuous  positions,  shows  the  estimation  in  which  he  is  held,  as  well  as 
the  inherent  nobleness  and  modesty  of  the  man. 

[From  a  Discourse  delivered  in  1847.] 
"  Scatter  thou  the  people  that  delight  in  war."    Psalm  Ixviii.  30. 

THE  literary  classes  of  a  nation  may  have  their  share  in  the  woes 
of  our  text.  The  true  rulers  of  a  people  are  often  less  the  men 
recognized  as  magistrates  and  monarchs  by  the  ensigns  of  office,  but 
rather  the  popular  authors  who  give  coloring  to  the  tastes  and  sen- 
timents, and  shape  to  the  principles  of  their  times.  Wearing  no 
tiara,  wielding  no  sceptre,  they  are  yet  often  really  throned  as  rulers 
in  the  mind  of  the  nation  and  the  age.  When  these,  as  such  in 
authority,  feed  a  taste  for  war,  reckless  of  right,  and  greedy  only  of 
glory  and  plunder,  they  sin,  and  God  holds  them  answerable  for  the 
homes  from  which  they  lure  the  adventurous  son  or  husband  enlist- 
ing for  a  soldier's  perils,  and  answerable  for  the  darker  desolation  of 
the  abodes  into  which  war  carries  pollution  and  remorseless  carnage. 
Poetry  has  too  much  made  the  fray,  and  the  banner,  and  nodding 
plume,  the  resounding  march,  -and  the  murderous  volley,  its  favor- 
ite themes,  careless  of  the  right  or  wrong  of  the  quarrel.  And 
one  of  the  many  causes  of  contention  that  Virtue  and  Piety  have 
with  the  drama,  especially  in  modern  times,  is  its  love  of  slaughter, 
and  the  insane  profusion  with  which  it  assumes  to  expend  human 
life  like  water,  and  gluts  and  fires  an  admiring  crowd  with  its  specta- 
cles of  imaged  suicide  and  murder.  Into  these  things  a  God  of  jus- 
tice will  search.  .  .  . 

See  the  memorials  of  the  far-travelled  and  victorious  legions  of 
ancient  Rome  in  the  days  of  her  republican  might  and  her  imperial 


252  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

pride,  then  turn  to  trace,  if  you  can,  the  features  of  that  terrible 
nation,  who  so  excelled  and  so  delighted  in  war ;  in  the  effeminate, 
treacherous,  and  vindictive  Italian,  who  has  passion  without  power, 
and  feeling  without  principle,  his  animal  sensibilities,  as  nurtured 
amid  the  nudities  of  exquisite  statuary  and  matchless  painting  to  a  re- 
fined delicacy  of  taste,  educated  until  they  have  outgrown  the  moral, 
and  left  behind  no  delicacy  whatever  of  moral  feelings.  Their  Vir- 
gil boasted  once,  in  the  days  of  warlike  power,  that  other  people 
might  better  carve  and  better  paint,  but  Romans  were  born  to  rule. 
The  curse  of  Providence  on  the  mad  love  of  military  rapine  has 
inverted  the  boast  of  their  poet.  The  modern  Roman  carves  and 
paints,  but  rule  he  cannot,  himself  or  others.  The  bayonets  of  Aus- 
tria govern  him,  and  the  Swiss  mercenaries  are  the  guards  of  his 
pontiff.  The  assassin  has  replaced  the  warrior,  the  fiddler  the  states- 
man, and  for  the  severe  virtue  of  her  Cato  and  the  simple  patriotism 
of  her  Cincinnatus,  you  see  a  nation  without  conscience,  without 
dignity,  and  without  power,  getting  up  melodramatic  conspiracies 
and  sanguinary  outbreaks,  but  without  the  pith  and  manhood  to 
recover  their  freedom.  They  who  delighted  in  war,  how  are  they 
scattered,  although  the  arches  and  the  pillars  yet  stand  that  tell  of 
their  old  manhood,  and  enterprise,  and  renown ;  and  under  the 
shadow  of  Trajan's  column  and  the  arch  of  Titus  clamors  the  men- 
dicant and  lurks  the  assassin  ! 

The  old  Sclavi,  once  a  formidable  people,  whose  name  in  their 
own  language  signified  "  glory,"  were  at  first  terrible  in  their  brave, 
fierce  invasions,  but  became,  in  their  time  and  turn,  vanquished  and 
captives  ;  and  now  their  national  name  is,  in  our  own  and  several 
European  languages,  the  term  to  describe  the  bondman,  the  man 
not  only  who  has  lost  peace,  but  who  has  lost  freedom  also.  Yes, 
our  very  word  "  slave,"  is  a  standing  memorial  of  the  great  retribu- 
tive law  of  our  text,  "  the  scatterer  scattered,"  the  prowler  preyed 
upon,  the  troubler  caught  in  the  pitfall  he  has  dug.  So,  turn  to  the 
European  ancestors  of  the  race  with  whom  is  waged  our  present 
contest.  So,  see  Spain,  once  the  mightiest  and  bravest  nation  of 
Europe,  now  at  home  poor,  though  her  universal  exchequer  once 
was  gorged  with  the  wealth  of  both  the  Indies,  and  in  her  colonies, 
once  the  scene  of  the  valor  of  a  Pizarro  and  a  Cortez,  see  her  race 
now  how  spent  and  abject !  In  times  nearer  our  own,  how  dread- 
fully were  the  invasions  of  revolutionary  and  imperial  France  re- 
quited in  her  own  capital,  twice  entered  by  an  enemy,  and  in  the  fate 
of  her  own  great  Captain,  coming  at  first,  as  it  was  predicted  of 


FREDERIC    HENRY    HEDGE.  2$3 

Cyrus,  "  upon  princes  as  upon  mortar,  and  as  the  potter  treadeth 
clay,"  afterwards  fretting  himself  to  death  within  the  circuit  of  his 
narrow  island  prison  —  how  did  God  seem  reading  a  fresh  comment, 
for  a  new  and  forgetful  generation,  on  this  old  and  forgotten  law  of 
his  providence. 


FREDERIC  HENRY  HEDGE. 

Frederic  Henry  Hedge  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  December  12,  1805.  His  father 
was  a  professor  of  logic  and  metaphysics  in  Harvard  College.  The  son  accompanied  Mr. 
George  Bancroft  to  Europe,  and  studied  at  German  schools.  He  returned  to  this  country 
in  1823,  and  was  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1825.  He  studied  theology  at  the  Cam- 
bridge school,  and  was  settled,  in  1828,  as  pastor  of  a  church  in  West  Cambridge.  In  1835 
he  removed  to  Bangor,  Me.,  where  he  remained  fifteen  years.  In  1847  he  made  a  tour  of 
Europe,  and  spent  a  winter  in  Italy.  In  1850  he  was  settled  as  pastor  of  a  church  in  Provi- 
dence, and  remained  there  until  1856,  when  he  removed  to  Brookline,  Mass.,  where  he  still 
resides.  He  was  chosen  professor  in  the  theological  school  at  Cambridge  in  1857.  He 
has  been  a  contributor  to  the  Examiner,  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  other  religious  and  lit- 
erary periodicals.  His  principal  work  is  The  Prose  Writers  of  Germany,  which  is  a  careful 
selection  from  the  most  eminent  authors,  beginning  with  Luther,  with  an  original  biography 
of  each.  Many  of  the  translations  were  made  by  him  also.  His  life  has  been  one  of  great 
activity,  and  a  collection  of  his  printed  sermons,  orations,  discourses,  reviews,  and  essays 
would  occupy  a  large  space.  Dr.  Hedge  is  far  from  being  a  diffuse  writer,  however  ;  his 
style  is  compact  and  sinewy,  and  he  challenges  his  reader's  most  thoughtful  attention.  He 
is  considered  one  of  the  most  thorough  scholars,  as  he  is  one  of  the  ablest  and  most  effective 
writers,  in  the  Unitarian  denomination.  —  N.  B.  Since  the  above  was  written,  Dr.  Hedge 
has  been  appointed  Professor  of  German  in  Harvard  College. 

[From  an  article  upon  Irony,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.] 
THE  IRONY  OF  NATURE. 

WE  began  with  the  irony  of  spirit ;  let  us  round  the  swift  synopsis 
with  a  glance  at  the  ironies  of  nature. 

As  such  I  reckon,  for  one  thing,  the  close  reserve  with  which 
nature  baffles  the  scrutiny  of  science,  and  hides  from  curious  eyes 
the  final  secret  of  her  births.  From  time  immemorial  the  inscruta- 
ble mother  has  been  playing  a  game  of  inverted  blind-man's-buff 
with  her  inquisitive  children.  She  bandages  their  eyes,  and  bids 
them  catch  her  if  they  can.  Her  explorers  chase  her  hither  and 
thither,  but  their  eyes  are  holden  that  they  should  not  know  her.  When 
any  one  thinks  he  has  caught  her,  it  is  only  a  part  of  her  drapery 
which  she  yields  to  his  clutches,  never  herself.  "  Science,"  says  the 
Persian  mystic,  "  puts  her  finger  in  her  mouth  and  cries  because  the 
mystery  of  being  will  not  reveal  itself."  The  physiologist  searches 
for  the  secret  of  life.  What  is  it  that  discriminates  animated  from 
inanimate  being  ?  Function.  In  the  lowest  as  in  the  highest,  in 


254  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

the  rhizopod  as  in  the  angel,  it  is  function  that  distinguishes  life  from 
death.  But  where  is  the  functionary  ?  Where  sits  the  performer 
who  plays  the  many-stringed  or  the  one-stringed  instrument?  No 
dissection  could  ever  show.  What  becomes  of  him  when  the  instru- 
ment stops  ?  No  observation  could  ever  report.  Performer  and 
performance  are  indistinguishably  one.  Between  the  instrument 
played  and  the  instrument  suddenly  stopped  there  is  no  perceptible 
difference,  except  the  fact  of  ability  or  inability  still  to  perform.  Yet 
is  the  difference  infinite  between  life  and  death.  The  ontologist 
searches  for  the  primal  substance.  Behind  all  the  wrappers  that 
envelop  it,  beneath  all  the  acts  that  represent  it,  he  would  stand  face 
to  face  with  the  ultimate  fact.  Is  it  matter  ?  With  microscope,  and 
knife,  and  crucible  he  interrogates  sensible  forms.  Is  it  spirit  ? 
With  unsparing  analysis  he  interrogates  consciousness  ;  and  finds 
himself  at  last,  in  whatever  direction  he  seeks,  after  all  his  probing, 
face  to  face  with  —  nothing.  And  "  nothing  "  is  the  answer  with 
which  the  irony  of  nature  responds  alike  to  physicist  and  metaphysi- 
cian, when  the  search  transcends  the  prescribed  bound.  The  Ixion 
of  Greek  mythology  is  an  ever-fit  symbol  of  all  endeavors  to  lay  hold 
of  the  absolute.  Ixion  is  in  love  with  Juno,  the  queen  of  the  empy- 
rean ;  he  thinks  to  embrace  her,  and  embraces  a  cloud.  Transcen- 
dentalism experiences  the  same  illusion,  and  experiences  something 
of  Ixion's  penalty  of  endless  rotation,  forever  traversing  the  same 
cycle,  from  spirit  to  matter,  and  round  to  spirit  again,  on  the  wheel 
to  which  her  serpentine  subtleties  have  bound  her. 

"  Tortos  Ixionis  angues 
Immanemque  rotam." 

Philosophy  chases,  nature  hides,  forever  inviting,  forever  baffling 
investigation.  "  Nature,"  wrote  Goethe,  in  the  midst  of  his  re- 
searches, "we  are  surrounded  and  clasped  by  her,  unable  to  step  out 
of  her,  and  unable  to  go  farther  into  her.  Unbidden  and  unwarned, 
she  takes  us  up  into  her  circling  dance,  and  whirls  herself  forth  with 
us  until  we  are  exhausted,  and  sink  from  her  arms.  .  .  .  We 
live  in  the  midst  of  her,  and  are  strangers  to  her  ;  she  converses 
with  us  unceasingly,  and  never  betrays  her  secret.  We  act  upon 
her  continually,  and  yet  have  no  power  over  her.  She  lives  alto- 
gether in  her  children  ;  and  the  mother,  where  is  she  ?  " 

A  deeper  irony  lurks  in  the  swift  termination  with  which  nature 
limits  all  beauty,  satisfaction,  life. 

All  beauty  resides  in  surfaces  merely ;  it  is  constituted  by  lines 
and  angles,  of  which  the  least  disturbance  dissipates  the  vision.  All 


FREDERIC    HENRY    HEDGE.  255 

natural  beauty  is  a  phantasmagory,  an  unreal  mockery,  to  which  a 
sentiment  in  the  soul  of  the  beholder  gives  all  its  effect.  The  glories 
of  sunset,  the  witchery  of  rose  and  gold  that  lures  like  the  gates  of 
heaven,  —  what  is  it  but  vibrations  of  an  invisible  ether  struggling 
through  moisture  and  made  visible  by  impediment  ?  Obstruction  in 
the  object,  abstraction  in  the  subject,  explains  the  whole  secret  of 
the  gorgeous  cheat.  The  moon-silvered  expanse  of  ocean  seen  from 
your  balcony  at  Newport  or  Nahant,  a  vision  that  draws  the  soul 
from  the  body  and  laps  it  in  elysium,  —  what  is  it  but  a  remnant  of 
that  setting  sun  received  second-hand  and  mixed  with  unsavory  brine  ? 

The  moon  on  the  wave  is  beautiful,  and  beautiful  the  landscape 
bathed  in  its  light.  But  encounter  that  orb  at  dead  of  night  on  a 
desolate  road  when  past  the  full,  just  risen  above  the  horizon  and 
level  with  your  eye,  gibbous,  lurid,  portentous, — what  irony  glares 
in  it !  what  a  tale  it  tells  of  a  blasted,  worn-out,  ruined  world  ! 

All  human  beauty  is  but  skin  deep,  and  scarcely  that.  A  little 
roughening  of  the  cuticle  will  mar  the  fairest  face,  and  change  beauty 
to  hideousness.  What  fearful  irony  leers  upon  us  from  the  human 
skull !  This  was  the  head,  this  the  divine  countenance,  of  some 
Helen,  some  Aspasia  or  Cleopatra,  some  Agnes  of  Meran  or  Mary 
of  Scotland,  on  whose  eyelids  hung  the  destinies  of  nations,  for 
whose  lips  the  lords  of  the  earth  thought  the  world  well  lost,  from 
whose  lineaments  painters  drew  their  presentment  of  the  Queen  of 
Heaven.  How  was  this  cruel  metamorphosis  wrought  ?  Simply  by 
stripping  off  the  surface.  The  miraculous  bulb  was  peeled,  a  layer 
of  tissue  removed,  and  behold  the  grinning  horror  !  [ "  Get  you  to 
my  lady's  chamber ;  tell  her,  let  her  paint  an  inch  thick,  to  this  favgr-— 
she  must  come."  ^^^T  \^ 

The  saying  of  the  poet,  "  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever,"  is 
true  only  when  predicated  of  the  image  in  the  mind  and  of  intellec- 
tual contemplation.  The  beauty  of  things  is  a  phantom  ;  the  enjoy- 
ment the  senses  have  of  it,  a  slippery  illusion.  A  beautiful  phenom- 
enon is  actually  seen  but  for  a  moment.  A  little  while,  and  though 
present  to  the  eye  it  is  seen  no  more,  as  a  strain  of  music  ceases  to 
be  heard  when  unduly  prolonged.  Only  the  thought  survives  the 
image  in  the  mind.  As  mere  sensation,  the  enjoyment  of  beauty  is 
fleeting,  like  all  our  enjoyments  ;  the  more  intense,  the  more  evanes- 
cent. It  is  a  bitter  irony  of  nature  that,  whilst  grief  may  last  for 
days  and  months,  all  pleasure  is  momentary.  The  best  that  life 
yields  in  that  kind  is  an  equilibrium  of  mild  content,  a  poise  between 
joy  and  pain.  Disturb  that  equilibrium  by  dropping  a  sorrow  into 


256  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

the  scale,  and  long  time  is  required  to  restore  the  balance.  Disturb 
the  equilibrium  by  adding  a  new  joy,  and  how  soon  the  beam  is 
straight !  We  get  used  and  indifferent  to  our  joys  ;  we  do  not  get 
used  to  our  pains.  And  yet  nature  can  bear  a  greater  accession  of 
sorrow  than  of  pleasure.  Strange  to  say,  the  heart  will  sooner 
break  with  joy  than  grief.  On  the  plane  of  physical  experience  there 
are  painful  sensations,  which,  beyond  a  certain  point  of  aggravation, 
are  fatal,  as  the  strain  of  the  rack  has  sometimes  proved.  And 
there  are  pleasurable  sensations  which  would  be  fatal  if  greatly 
intensified  or  prolonged.  But  note  this  curious  fact,  that  before  the 
limit  of  endurance  in  the  latter  case  is  reached  the  pleasure  turns  to 
pain,  which  shows  how  limited  is  physical  enjoyment.  Bodily  pain, 
on  the  contrary,  never  breaks  into  any  falsetto  of  pleasure,  but 
keeps  "  due  on  "  its  dolorous  road  till  anguish  deepens  into  death. 

Of  mental  emotions,  joy  in  itself  is  more  fatal  than  sorrow ;  the 
only  reason  why  men  oftener  pine  to  death  than  rejoice  to  death  is 
because  occasions  of  extreme  grief  are  more  frequent  than  occasions 
of  excessive  joy. 

"  If  ever,"  says  Faust,  in  his  bargain  with  Mephistopheles,  —  "  if 
ever  I  shall  say  to  the  passing  moment,  '  Tarry,  thou  art  so  beauti- 
ful,' then  you  may  lay  fetters  on  me,  and  I  will  gladly  go  to  per- 
dition." .  .  . 

Meanwhile,  nature  pursues  her  course,  regardless  alike  of  joy  and 
grief.  No  sympathy  has  she  with  sad  or  gay,  no  care  to  adjust  her 
aspects  with  our  experience,  her  seasons  with  our  need,  or  to  match 
with  her  sky  the  weather  in  the  soul.  She  smiles  her  blandest  on 
the  recent  battle-field  where  the  hopes  of  a  thousand  homes  lie  with- 
ered, and  she  smites  with  her  tornadoes  the  ungathered  harvest  in 
which  the  bread  of  a  thousand  homes  has  ripened.  She  refuses  a 
glint  of  her  sunlight  to  the  ship  befogged  on  a  lee  shore,  and  pours 
it  in  full  splendor  on  the  finished,  irreparable  wreck.  Prodigal  of 
life,  she  is  every  moment  teeming  with  births  innumerable,  and  still 
the  drift  of  death  accumulates  on  the  planet.  This  earth  of  our 
abode  is  all  compact  of  extinct  creations,  every  creature  on  it  a  sar- 
cophagus of  perished  lives,  every  existence  purchased  and  maintained 
by  sumless  deaths.  The  outstretched  landscape,  refulgent  in  the 
bright  June  morning,  dew-gemmed,  vocal  with  the  ecstasies  of  wel- 
coming birds,  suggestive  of  eternal  youth,  is  a  funeral  pageant,  a 
part  of  the  fatal  procession  which  takes  us  with  it  as  we  gaze.  The 
fresh  enamel  laid  on  by  the  laughing  hours,  the  festive  sheen,  the 
universal  face  of  joy,  "the  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky,"  when  ana- 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS.  257 

lyzed,  turns  to  a  thin  varnish  spread  over  mould  and  corruption. 
And  amid  the  myriad-voiced  psalm  of  life  that  makes  the  outgoings 
of  the  morning  glad,  is  heard,  if  we  listen,  the  sullen  ground-tone  of 
mortality  with  which  nature  accompanies  all  her  music. 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS. 

William  Gilmore  Simms  was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  April  17,  1806.  He  received  but 
a  limited  education  in  one  of  the  grammar  schools  of  the  city,  and  was  for  some  time  a  clerk 
in  a  drug  house  ;  but  at  the  age  of  eighteen  he  commenced  the  study  of  law.  He  was  mar- 
ried at  twenty,  and  at  twenty-two  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  After  practising  a  year,  he  pur- 
chased an  interest  in  a  newspaper ;  but  this  proved  a  losing  venture,  as  the  doctrine  of 
"nullification  "  was  in  the  ascendant,  and  Simms  was  then  an  advocate  for  the  maintenance 
of  the  Federal  Union.  He  resolved  to  retrieve  his  foi  tunes  by  literary  labors,  and  from  that 
time  forward  he  published,  with  almost  every  year,  a  poem,  a  novel,  a  history,  or  a  biography. 
No  writer  of  modern  times  has  excelled  him  in  industry ;  but  the  rapidity  with  which  his 
works  were  produced  has  had  its  usual  effect.  None  of  them  show  the  matured  and  sym- 
metrical design  which  marks  a  work  of  art,  still  less  the  hand  of  a  master  in  their  execution. 
There  are  passages  of  description  in  many  of  his  novels  that  are  vivid  and  picturesque,  but 
the  style  is  often  redundant,  lacking  in  repose,  and  scarcely  ever  free  from  provincialisms. 
The  characters  are  like  the  lay  figures  of  the  studio,  useful  in  exigencies  and  effective  in 
tableaux,  but  devoid  of  interest  in  themselves.  The  best  of  his  novels  are  of  the  historical 
kind,  in  which  southern  life  in  early  times  is  painted,  such  as  The  Yemassee  and  Guy  Rivers. 
The  most  of  them  are  irredeemably  dull,  at  least  for  readers  who  value  their  time,  and  they 
must  surely  sink  into  neglect. 

Among  his  more  solid  works  are  the  History  of  South  Carolina,  and  the  lives  of  Generals 
Francis  Marion  and  Nathanael  Greene,  Captain  John  Smith,  founder  of  the  Virginia  co!ony, 
and  the  Chevalier  Bayard.  Most  of  his  poems,  some  fourteen  in  the  whole,  are  out  of 
print.  The  best  of  them  is  said  to  be  Atalantis,  published  in  New  York  in  1833.  He  was 
also  an  indefatigable  writer  for  periodicals,  having  been  editor  of  several  southern  reviews, 
and  a  contributor  to  a  great  number  of  northern  magazines.  The  student  who  is  curious  in 
such  matters  will  find  in  Appleton's  Cyclopaedia,  Vol.  XIV.,  p.  668,  a  list  of  nearly  sixty 
volumes  of  his  works. 

Mr.  Simms  received  a  considerable  fortune  by  his  second  marriage,  and  his  works  un- 
doubtedly yielded  him  a  handsome  income.  He  was  a  man  of  frank  and  hearty  manners  and 
amiable  character.  He  died  at  Savannah,  June  n,  1870. 

The  extract  here  given  is  from  the  Life  of  Marion.  The  work  of  selection  is  much  like 
giving  a  sample  from  a  piece  of  cloth ;  his  style  has  a  certain  level  quality,  that  neither 
kindles  our  enthusiasm,  nor  falls  below  a  respectable  mediocrity. 

[From  the  Life  of  Marion.] 

MARION'S  career,  as  a  partisan,  in  the  thickets  and  swamps  of 
Carolina,  is  abundantly  distinguished  by  the  picturesque  ;  but  it  was 
while  he  held  his  camp  at  Snow's  Island,  that  it  received  its  highest 
colors  of  romance.  .  .  . 

Art  had  done  little  to  increase  the  comforts  or  the  securities  of 
his  fortress.  It  was  one,  complete  to  his  hands,  from  those  of 
17 


258       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

nature  —  such  a  one  as  must  have  delighted  the  generous  English 
outlaw  of  Sherwood  forest ;  insulated  by  deep  ravines  and  rivers,  a 
dense  forest  of  mighty  trees,  and  interminable  undergrowth.  The 
vine  and  brier  guarded  his  passes.  The  laurel  and  the  shrub,  the 
vine  and  sweet  scented  jessamine,  roofed  his  dwelling,  and  clambered 
up  between  his  closed  eyelids  and  the  stars.  Obstructions,  scarcely 
penetrable  by  any  foe,  crowded  the  pathway  to  his  tent ;  and  no 
footstep,  not  practised  in  the  secret,  and  "to  the  manner  born," 
might  pass  unchallenged  to  his  midnight  rest.  The  swamp  was  his 
moat ;  his  bulwarks  were  the  deep  ravines,  which,  watched  by  sleep- 
less rifles,  were  quite  as  impregnable  as  the  castles  on  the  Rhine. 
Here,  in  the  possession  of  his  fortress,  the  partisan  slept  secure.  .  .  . 

His  movements  were  marked  by  equal  promptitude  and  wariness. 
He  suffered  no  risks  from  a  neglect  of  proper  precaution.  His 
habits  of  circumspection  and  resolve  ran  together  in  happy  unison. 
His  plans,  carefully  considered  beforehand,  were  always  timed  with 
the  happiest  reference  to  the  condition  and  feelings  of  his  men.  To 
prepare  that  condition,  and  to  train  those  feelings,  were  the  chief 
employment  of  his  repose.  He  knew  his  game,  and  how  it  should 
be  played,  before  a  step  was  taken  or  a  weapon  drawn.  When  he 
himself,  or  any  of  his  parties,  left  the  island  upon  an  expedition, 
they  advanced  along  no  beaten  paths.  They  made  them  as  they 
went.  He  had  the  Indian  faculty  in  perfection,  of  gathering  his 
course  from  the  sun,  from  the  stars,  from  the  bark  and  tops  of 
trees,  and  such  other  natural  guides,  as  the  woodman  acquires  only 
through  long  and  watchful  experience.  Many  of  the  trails,  thus 
opened  by  him,  upon  these  expeditions,  are  now  the  ordinary  avenues 
of  the  country.  On  starting,  he  almost  invariably  struck  into  the 
woods,  and  seeking  the  heads  of  the  larger  watercourses,  crossed 
them  at  their  first  and  small  beginnings.  He  destroyed  the  bridges 
where  he  could.  He  preferred  fords.  The  former  not  only  facil- 
itated the  progress  of  less  fearless  enemies,  but  apprised  them  of  his 
own  approach.  If  speed  was  essential,  a  more  direct,  but  not  less 
cautious  route  was  pursued.  .  .  . 

The  secrecy  with,  which  Marion  conducted  his  expeditions  was, 
perhaps,  one  of  the  causes  of  their  frequent  success.  He  intrusted 
his  schemes  to  nobody,  not  even  his  most  confidential  officers.  He 
consulted  with  them  respectfully,  heard  them  patiently,  weighed 
their  suggestions,  and  silently  approached  his  conclusions.  They 
knew  his  determinations  only  from  his  actions.  He  left  no  track 
behind  him,  if  it  were  possible  to  avoid  it.  He  was  often  vainly 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS.  259 

hunted  after  by  his  own  detachments.  He  was  more  apt  at  finding 
them  than  they  him.  His  scouts  were  taught  a  peculiar  and  shrill 
whistle,  which,  at  night,  could  be  heard  at  a  most  astonishing  dis- 
tance. We  are  reminded  of  a  signal  of  Roderick  Dhu  :  — 

"  He  whistled  shrill, 
And  he  was  answered  from  the  hill ; 
Wild  as  the  scream  of  the  curlew, 
From  crag  to  crag  the  signal  flew." 

His  expeditions  were  frequently  long,  and  his  men,  hurrying  forth 
without  due  preparation,  not  unfrequently  suffered  much  privation 
from  want  of  food.  To  guard  against  this  danger,  it  was  their  habit 
to  watch  his  cook.  If  they  saw  him  unusually  busied  in  preparing 
supplies  of  the  rude,  portable  food,  which  it  was  Marion's  custom  to 
carry  on  such  occasions,  they  knew  what  was  before  them,  and  pro- 
vided themselves  accordingly.  In  no  other  way  could  they  arrive  at 
their  general's  intentions.  His  favorite  time  for  moving  was  with 
the  setting  sun,  and  then  it  was  known  that  the  march  would  con- 
tinue all  night.  .  .  . 

These  marches  were  made  in  all  seasons.  His  men  were  badly 
clothed  in  homespun,  —  a  light  wear  which  afforded  little  warmth. 
They  slept  in  the  open  air,  and  frequently  without  a  blanket.  Their 
ordinary  food  consisted  of  sweet  potatoes,  garnished,  on  fortunate 
occasions,  with  lean  beef.  .  .  . 

Their  swords,  unless  taken  from  the  enemy,  were  made  out  of 
mill  saws,  roughly  manufactured  by  a  forest  blacksmith.  His  scouts 
were  out  in  all  directions,  and  at  all  hours.  They  did  the  double 
duty  of  patrol  and  spies.  They  hovered  about  the  posts  of  the 
enemy,  crouching  in  the  thicket,  or  darting  along  the  plain,  picking 
up  prisoners,  and  information,  and  spoils  together.  They  cut  off 
stragglers,  encountered  patrols  of  the  foe,  and  arrested  his  supplies 
on  the  way  to  the  garrison.  Sometimes  the  single  scout,  buried  in 
the  thick  tops  of  the  tree,  looked  down  upon  the  march  of  his 
legions,  or  hung,  perched  over  the  hostile  encampment  till  it  slept, 
then  slipping  down,  stole  through  the  silent  host,  carrying  off  a 
drowsy  sentinel,  or  a  favorite  charger,  upon  which  the  daring  spy 
flourished  conspicuous  among  his  less  fortunate  companions. 


26O  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


:      HENRY  WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  was  born  in  Portland,  Me.,  February  27,  1807.  His 
recollections  of 

"  The  beautiful  town 
That  is  seated  by  the  sea  " 

are  gathered  in  the  touching  poem,  My  Lost  Youth.  He  was  graduated  in  1825  at  Bowdoin 
College,  in  the  same  class  with  Hawthorne.  The  next  year  he  was  appointed  professor  of 
modern  languages  at  Bowdoin,  and  was  allowed  the  customary  leave  of  absence,  that  he 
might  make  the  tour  of  Europe.  On  his  return  he  commenced  the  duties  of  his  chair. 
While  professor  at  Bowdoin  he  translated  the  Coplas  de  Manrique,  and  was  a  contributor 
to  the  North  American  Review.  His  first  original  work,  entitled  Outre  Mer,  containing 
his  notes  of  travel,  published  in  1835,  showed  refinement  of  style,  and  many  delicate  traits 
of  observation,  which  were  immediately  recognized  by  critical  readers.  In  1835  he  was 
appointed  to  a  similar  professorship  at  Harvard  College,  as  a  successor  to  Mr.  George 
Ticknor;  upon  which  he  made  a  second  visit  to  Europe,  and  was  absent  two  years.  On 
his  return  he  commenced  his  college  duties,  and  held  the  place  until  1854.  In  1839  appeared 
his  romance  Hyperion,  a  book  that  is  glowing  with  poetic  thought  and  instinct  with  poetic  ex- 
pression. In  the  same  year  was  published  Voices  of  the  Night,  a  collection  that  embraces 
many  of  his  most  widely  known  poems.  From  that  time  he  was  universally  acknowledged 
to  be,  if  not  the  first,  the  most  popular  living  poet.  Ballads  and  Other  Poems,  was  printed 
in  1841,  Poems  on  Slavery  in  1842,  The  Spanish  Student,  a  play,  in  1843,  Poets  and  Poetry 
of  Europe  in  1845,  The  Belfry  of  Bruges  in  1845,  Evangeline  in  1847,  Kavanagh,  a  novel, 
in  1849,  Seaside  and  Fireside  in  1849,  The  Golden  Legend  in  1851,  The  Song  of  Hiawatha 
in  1855,  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish  in  1858,  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  1863,  Flower 
de  Luce  in  1866,  a  translation  of  The  Divine  Comedy  of  Dante  in  1867,  The  New  England 
Tragedies  in  1868,  The  Divine  Tragedy  in  1871,  Three  Books  of  Song  in  1872. 

It  is  remarkable  to  observe  that  every  volume  has  made  a  positive  addition  to  our  stock 
of  ideal  portraits  and  poetical  imagery.  We  might  conceive  of  a  Longfellow  Gallery,  better 
known  and  more  fondly  cherished  than  the  picture  galleries  of  kings.  There,  in  the  place  of 
honor  hangs  Evangeline,  sweetest  of  rustic  heroines,  turning  her  sad  face  away  from  the 
desolate  Grand  Pre.  Opposite  is  the  Puritan  damsel,  Priscilla,  with  her  bashful,  clerical 
lover,  and  the  fiery  little  captain.  In  the  next  panel  is  the  half-frozen  sound,  over  which 
skims  the  bold  Norseman.  There,  under  the  chestnut  tree,  stands  the  swart  blacksmith,  all 
the  love  of  a  father  brimming  in  his  eyes.  There  leans  the  vast  glacier,  gleaming  in  fatal 
beauty,  along  whose  verge  toils  upwards  the  youth  with  Excelsior  on  his  banner.  There 
the  airy  Preciosa  is  dancing  away  the  scruples  of  the  archbishop.  Here  is  pictured  the 
Belfry  of  Bruges,  and  the  groups  of  people  listening  to  the  heavenly  chime  of  its  bells. 
There,  shivering  in  a  wintry  sea,  is  the  Hesperus,  a  helpless  wreck,  driving  upon  Norman's 
Woe.  Yonder  stands  Albert  DUrer,  in  a  street  of  his  beloved,  quaint  old  Nuremberg. 
There,  on  the  sculptured  stairway,  is  the  Clock,  ticking  its  eternal  Forever !  never  !  Never  ! 
forever!  There  saunters  the  dreamy-eyed  Sicilian,  his  dainty  mustaches  spread  like  a 
swallow's  wings.  Behold  the  busy  throngs  about  that  huge  hulk,  and  see  the  proud  master 
waving  his  hand  as  the  signal  for  the  launch  1  By  that  empty  cradle  sits  the  mother  think- 
ing of  the  dead  lamb  of  her  flock.  Yonder  looms  up  Strasburg  spire,  while  spirits  of  the  air 
circle  round  its  pinnacles,  and  the  miracle  play  goes  on  below.  That  is  Paul  Revere,  gallop- 
ing in  the  gray  of  the  morning  along  the  road  to  Concord.  In  that  green  spot,  with  the 
limitless  prairie  beyond,  stands  Hiawatha,  looking  gloomily  westward,  whither  his  path  leads 
him.  Lastly,  we  see  a  broad  frame,  on  which  we  read  in  golden  letters  the  legend,  The 
Divine  Tragedy.  Let  us  not  lightly  raise  the  veil. 

Poetry,  like  music,  has  some  strains  suited  to  every  mood  of  mind,  and  awakens  a  sense 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW.  26 1 

of  beauty  in  the  simple  hearts  of  the  uncultured,  as  well  as  in  the  strong  souls  of  the  great 
and  wise  ;  and  therefore  each  possessor  of  the  divine  gift  attracts  his  separate  followers,  and 
addresses  different  faculties.  But  Longfellow  is  well  nigh  universal  in  his  sympathies,  and 
so  is  beloved  of  all  men.  If  it  is  urged  that  one  poet  is  more  profoundly  imaginative,  an- 
other more  witty  or  more  glowing,  it  can  still  be  said  that  his  images  fill  the  horizon  of  widely 
different  minds,  and  that  his  verse  has  a  grace,  melody,  and  variety  that  leave  no  room  for 
criticism.  Every  emotion  that  stirs  us  finds  a  response  in  some  of  his  poems,  and  we  see 
that  his  nice  art  has  seized  upon  the  picturesque  in  nature  to  form  an  appropriate  setting  to 
each  thought.  The  poetry  of  Longfellow  furnishes,  probably,  the  most  signal  proof  of  the 
benefits  conferred  by  poets  upon  mankind.  It  is  a  gospel  of  good  will  set  to  music.  It 
has  carried  "sweetness  and  light  "  to  thousands  of  homes.  It  is  blended  with  our  holiest 
affections  and  our  immortal  hopes. 

[From  Outre  Mer.] 
THE  JOURNEY   INTO   SPAIN. 

I  PASSED  by  moonlight  the  little  River  Bidasoa,  which  forms  the 
boundary  between  France  and  Spain  ;  and  when  the  morning  broke, 
found  myself  far  up  among  the  mountains  of  San  Salvador,  the  most 
westerly  links  of  the  great  Pyrenean  chain.  The  mountains  around 
me  were  neither  rugged  nor  precipitous,  but  they  rose  one  above  an- 
other in  a  long,  majestic  swell,  and  the  trace  of  the  ploughshare  was 
occasionally  visible  to  their  summits.  They  seemed  entirely  desti- 
tute of  forest  scenery ;  and  as  the  season  of  vegetation  had  not  yet 
commenced,  their  huge  outlines  lay  black,  and  barren,  and  desolate 
against  the  sky.  But  it  was  a  glorious  morning,  and  the  sun  rose 
up  into  a  cloudless  heaven,  and  poured  a  flood  of  gorgeous  splendor 
over  the  mountain  landscape,  as  if  proud  of  the  realm  he  shone  upon. 
The  scene  was  enlivened  by  the  dashing  of  a  swollen  mountain 
brook,  whose  course  we  followed  for  miles  down  the  valley,  as  it 
leaped  onward  to  its  journey's  end,  now  breaking  into  a  white  cas- 
cade, and  now  foaming  and  chafing  beneath  a  rustic  bridge.  Now 
and  then  we  rode  through  a  dilapidated  town,  with  a  group  of  idlers 
at  every  corner,  wrapped  in  tattered  brown  cloaks,  and  smoking 
their  little  paper  cigars  in  the  sun ;  then  would  succeed  a  desolate 
tract  of  country,  cheered  only  by  the  tinkle  of  a  mule  bell,  or  the 
song  of  a  muleteer  ;  then  we  would  meet  a  solitary  traveller  mounted 
on  horseback,  and  wrapped  in  the  ample  folds  of  his  cloak,  with  a 
gun  hanging  at  the  pommel  of  his  saddle.  Occasionally,  too,  among 
the  bleak,  inhospitable  hills,  we  passed  a  rude  little  chapel,  with  a 
cluster  of  ruined  cottages  around  it;  and  whenever  our  carriage 
stopped  at  the  relay,  or  loitered  slowly  up  the  hillside,  a  crowd  of 
children  would  gather  around  us,  with  little  images  and  crucifixes 
for  sale,  curiously  ornamented  with  ribbons  and  little  bits  of 
tawdry  finery.  .  .  . 


262       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

On  the  following  morning  we  left  the  town,  long  before  day- 
break, and  during  our  forenoon's  journey  the  postilion  drew  up  at  an 
inn,  on  the  southern  slope  of  the  Sierra  de  San  Lorenzo,  in  the 
province  of  old  Castile.  The  house  was  an  old,  dilapidated  tene- 
ment, built  of  rough  stone,  and  coarsely  plastered  upon  the  outside. 
The  tiled  roof  had  long  been  the  sport  of  wind  and  rain,  the  motley 
coat  of  plaster  was  broken  and  time-worn,  and  the  whole  building 
sadly  out  of  repair ;  though  the  fanciful  mouldings  under  the  eaves, 
and  the  curiously  carved  wood-work  that  supported  the  little  balcony 
over  the  principal  entrance,  spoke  of  better  days  gone  by.  The  whole 
building  reminded  me  of  a  dilapidated  Spanish  Don,  down  at  the 
heel  and  out  at  the  elbows,  but  with  here  and  there  a  remnant  of 
former  magnificence  peeping  through  the  loopholes  of  his  tattered 
cloak. 

A  wide  gateway  ushered  the  traveller  into  the  interior  of  the 
building,  and  conducted  him  to  a  low-roofed  apartment,  paved  with 
round  stones,  and  serving  both  as  a  court-yard  and  a  stable.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  neutral  ground  for  man  and  beast  —  a  little  republic, 
where  horse  and  rider  had  common  privileges,  and  mule  and 
muleteer  lay  cheek  by  jowl.  In  one  corner  a  poor  jackass  was 
patiently  devouring  a  bundle  of  musty  straw  ;  in  another,  its  master 
Jay  sound  asleep,  with  his  saddle-cloth  for  a  pillow;  here  a  group  of 
muleteers  were  quarrelling  over  a  pack  of  dirty  cards,  and  there  the 
village  barber,  with  a  self-important  air,  stood  laving  the  alcalde's  chin 
from  the  helmet  of  Mambrino.  On  the  wall  a  little  taper  glimmered 
feebly  before  an  image  of  St.  Anthony ;  directly  opposite  these  a 
leathern  wine-bottle  hung  by  the  neck  from  a  pair  of  ox-horns  ;  and 
the  pavement  below  was  covered  with  a  curious  medley  of  boxes, 
and  bags,  and  cloaks,  and  pack-saddles,  and  sacks  of  grain,  and 
skins  of  wine,  and  all  kinds  of  lumber. 

A  small  door  upon  the  right  led  us  into  the  inn  kitchen.  It  was  a 
room  about  ten  feet  square,  and  literally  all  chimney ;  for  the  hearth 
was  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  and  the  walls  sloped  upwards  in  the 
form  of  a  long,  narrow  pyramid,  with  an  opening  at  the  top  for  the 
escape  of  the  smoke.  Quite  round  this  little  room  ran  a  row  of 
benches,  upon  which  sat  one  or  two  grave  personages  smoking 
paper  cigars.  Upon  the  hearth  blazed  a  handful  of  fagots,  whose 
bright  flame  danced  merrily  among  a  motley  congregation  of  pots 
and  kettles,  and  a  long  wreath  of  smoke  wound  lazily  up  through  the 
huge  tunnel  of  the  roof  above.  The  walls  were  black  with  soot,  and 
ornamented  with  sundry  legs  of  bacon,  and  festoons  of  sausages ; 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW.  263 

and  as  there  were  no  windows  in  this  dingy  abode,  the  only  light 
which  cheered  the  darkness  within  came  flickering  from  the  fire 
upon  the  hearth,  and  the  smoky  sunbeams  that  peeped  down  the 
long-necked  chimney. 


[From  Hyperion.] 

"  WHERE  should  the  scholar  live  ?  In  solitude,  or  in  society  ?  In 
the  green  stillness  of  the  country,  where  he  can  hear  the  heart  of 
Nature  beat ;  or  in  the  dark,  gray  town,  where  he  can  hear  and  feel 
the  throbbing  heart  of  man  ?  I  will  make  answer  for  him,  and 
say,  in  the  dark,  gray  town.  O,  they  do  greatly  err,  who  think  that 
the  stars  are  all  the  poetry  which  cities  have  ;  and  therefore  that  the 
poet's  only  dwelling  should  be  in  sylvan  solitudes,  under  the  green 
roof  of  trees.  Beautiful,  no  doubt,  are  all  the  forms  of  Nature,  when 
transfigured  by  the  miraculous  power  of  poetry ;  hamlets  and 
harvest-fields,  and  nut-brown  waters,  flowing  ever  under  the  forest, 
vast  and  shadowy,  with  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  rural  life.  But 
after  all,  what  are  these  but  the  decorations  and  painted  scenery 
in  the  great  theatre  of  human  life  ?  What  are  they  but  the  coarse 
materials  of  the  poet's  song  ?  Glorious,  indeed,  is  the  world  of  God 
around  us,  but  more  glorious  the  world  of  God  within  us.  There 
lies  the  land  of  song  ;  there  lies  the  poet's  native  land.  The  river 
of  life,  that  flows  through  streets  tumultuous,  bearing  along  so  many 
gallant  hearts,  so  many  wrecks  of  humanity ;  the  many  homes  and 
households,  each  a  little  world  in  itself,  revolving  round  its  fireside, 
as  a  central  sun  ;  all  forms  of  human  joy  and  suffering,  brought  into 
that  narrow  compass  ;  —  and  to  be  in  this,  and  be  a  part  of  this,  act- 
ing, thinking,  rejoicing,  sorrowing,  with  his  fellow-men  — such,  such 
should  be  the  poet's  life.  If  he  would  describe  the  world,  he 
should  live  in  the  world.  The  mind  of  the  scholar,  if  you  would 
have  it  large  and  liberal,  should  come  in  contact  with  other  minds. 
It  is  better  that  his  armor  should  be  somewhat  bruised  by  rude 
encounters  even,  than  hang  forever  rusting  on  the  wall.  Nor  will 
his  themes  be  few  or  trivial,  because  apparently  shut  in  between  the 
walls  of  houses,  and  having  merely  the  decorations  of  street  scenery. 
A  ruined  character  is  as  picturesque  as  a  ruined  castle.  There  are 
dark  abysses  and  yawning  gulfs  in  the  human  heart,  which  can  be 
rendered  passable  only  by  bridging  them  over  with  iron  nerves  and 
sinews,  as  Challey  bridged  the  Sarine  in  Switzerland,  and  Telford 
the  sea  between  Anglesea  and  England,  with  chain  bridges.  These 


264       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

are  the  great  themes  of  human  thought  —  not  green  grass,  and 
flowers,  and  moonlight.  Besides,  the  mere  external  forms  of  Nature 
we  make  our  own,  and  carry  with  us  everywhere  by  the  power  of 
memory." 

"  I  fear,  however,"  interrupted  Flemming,  "that  in  towns  the  soul 
of  man  grows  proud.  He  needs  at  times  to  be  sent  forth,  like  the 
Assyrian  monarch,  into  green  fields,  '  a  wondrous  wretch  and  weed- 
less,'  to  eat  green  herbs,  and  be  wakened  and  chastised  by  the  rain 
shower  and  winter's  bitter  weather.  Moreover,  in  cities  there  is 
danger  of  the  soul's  becoming  wed  to  pleasure,  and  forgetful  of  its 
high  vocation.  There  have  been  souls  dedicated  to  heaven  from 
childhood,  and  guarded  by  good  angels  as  sweet  seclusions  for  holy 
thoughts,  and  prayers,  and  all  good  purposes,  wherein  pious  wishes 
dwelt  like  nuns,  and  every  image  was  a  saint ;  and  yet  in  life's 
vicissitudes,  by  the  treachery  of  occasion,  by  the  thronging  passions 
of  great  cities,  have  become  soiled  and  sinful.  They  resemble  those 
convents  on  the  River  Rhine,  which  have  been  changed  to  taverns  ; 
from  whose  chambers  the  pious  inmates  have  long  departed,  and  in 
whose  cloisters  the  footsteps  of  travellers  have  effaced  the  images  of 
buried  saints,  and  whose  walls  are  written  over  with  ribaldry  and 
the  names  of  strangers,  and  resound  no  more  with  holy  hymns,  but 
with  revelry  and  loud  voices." 

"  Both  town  and  country  have  their  dangers,"  said  the  Baron, 
"  and  therefore,  wherever  the  scholar  lives,  he  must  not  forget  his 
high  vocation." 

THE  ARSENAL  AT   SPRINGFIELD. 

THIS  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms  ; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah  !  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys  ! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies  ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 

The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 
Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW.  26$ 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's  song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent's  skin ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns  ; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage  ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns  ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder, 

The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade ; 
And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 

The  diapason  of  the  canonnade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 

With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 
Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 

And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth,  bestowed  on  camps  and  courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts  : 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred  ! 
.     And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 
Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of  Cain  ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease ; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 

I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say,  "  Peace ! " 

Peace  !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 

The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies  ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


266       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


A   PSALM   OF   LIFE. 
WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG  MAN  SAID  TO  THE  PSALMIST. 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal : 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 

Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ;  — 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 


HENRY    WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW.  267 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE  BELEAGUERED   CITY. 

I  HAVE  read,  in  some  old,  marvellous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 

With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 
There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 

The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 
The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air, 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled  ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star,  — 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 


268       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there, 
'     In  the  army  of  the  grave  ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 
But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled  ; 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead,  w 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 

L'6ternit6  est  une  pendule,  dont  le  balancier  dit  et  redit  sans  cesse  ces  deux  mots  seule- 
ment,  dans  le  silence  des  tombeaux:   "Toujours  !  jamais  !    Jamais  !  toujours  !  " 

JACQUES  BRIDAINB. 

SOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 

Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 

Across  its  antique  portico 

Tall  poplar  trees  their  shadows  throw, 

And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 

An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 

Half  way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 


HENRY    WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW.  269 

Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 

With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 

But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 

Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 

It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 

Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 

And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door,  — 

"  Forever —  never ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever !  " 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared ; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board  ; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased, — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 

There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed  ; 

O,  precious  hours  !     O,  golden  prime, 

And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 

Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 

Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 


2/O  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night ; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow  ; 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead ; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"  Ah  !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ?  " 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear,  -— 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 


THE   FIRE   OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 

DEVEREUX  FARM,  NEAR  MARBLEHEAD 

WE  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 
Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 

Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold, 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port, 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town, 
The  lighthouse,  the  dismantled  fort, 

The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room  ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 
Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a  vanished  scene, 
Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been, 
And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was  dead ; 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 
When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain, 

Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends, 
And  never  can  be  one  again  ; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 
That  words  are  powerless  to  express, 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 
Had  something  strange,  I  could  but  mark ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 
We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main, 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames, 
The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach, 

The  gusty  blast,  the  bickering  flames, 
All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech  ; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a  part 
Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain, 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 
That  send  no  answers  back  again. 


2/2 


HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


O,  flames  that  glowed  !     O,  hearts  that  yearned  ! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin, 
The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned, 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  within. 


HIAWATHA'S  SAILING. 


"GiVE  me  of  your  bark,  O  Birch  Tree  '. 
Of  your  yellow  bark,  O  -Birch  Tree  ! 
Growing  by  the  rushing  river, 
Tall  and  stately  in  the  valley  ! 
I  a  light  canoe  will  build  me, 
Build  a  swift  Cheemaun  for  sailing, 
That  shall  float  upon  the  river, 
Like  a  yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 
Like  a  yellow  water-lily  ! 

"Lay  aside  your  cloak,  O  Birch  Tree  I 
Lay  aside  your  white-skin  wrapper, 
For  the  Summer-time  is  coming, 
And  the  sun  is  warm  in  heaven, 
And  you  need  no  white-skin  wrapper  ! " 

Thus  aloud  cried  Hiawatha 
In  the  solitary  forest, 
By  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 
When  the  birds  were  singing  gayly, 
In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  were  singing, 
And  the  sun,  from  sleep  awaking, 
Started  up  and  said,  "  Behold  me  I 
Geezis,  the  great  Sun,  behold  me  1 " 

And  the  tree  with  all  its  branches 
Rustled  in  the  breeze  of  morning, 
Saying,  with  a  sigh  of  patience, 
"  Take  my  cloak,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 

With  his  knife  the  tree  he  girdled  ; 
Just  beneath  its  lowest  branches, 
Just  above  the  roots,  he  cut  it, 
Till  the  sap  came  oozing  outward  ; 
Down  the  trunk,  from  top  to  bottom, 
Sheer  he  cleft  the  bark  asunder, 
With  a  wooden  wedge  he  raised  it, 
Stripped  it  from  the  trunk  unbroken. 

"Give  me  of  your  boughs,  O  Cedar! 
Of  your  strong  and  pliant  branches, 
My  canoe  to  make  more  steady, 
Make  more  strong  and  firm  beneath  me  ! ' 

Through  the  summit  of  the  Cedar 
Went  a  sound,  a  cry  of  horror, 
Went  a  murmur  of  resistance  ; 
But  it  whispered,  bending  downward, 
"  Take  my  boughs,  O  Hiawatha  1 " 


Down  he  hewed  the  boughs  of  cedar, 
Shaped  them  straightway  to  a  framework, 
Like    two    bows    he   formed    and    shaped 

them, 
Like  two  bended  bows  together. 

"  Give  me  of  your  roots,  O  Tamarack  I 
Of  your  fibrous  roots,  O  Larch  Tree  ! 
My  canoe  to  bind  together, 
So  to  bind  the  ends  together 
That  the  water  may  not  enter, 
That  the  river  may  not  wet  me  ! " 

And  the  Larch,  with  all  its  fibres, 
Shivered  in  the  air  of  morning, 
Touched  his  forehead  with  its  tassels, 
Said,  with  one  long  sigh  of  sorrow, 
"Take  them  all,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 

From  the  earth  he  tore  the  fibres, 
Tore  the  tough  roots  of  the  Larch  Tree, 
Closely  sewed  the  bark  together, 
Bound  it  closely  to  the  framework. 

"  Give  me  of  your  balm,  O  Fir  Tree  ! 
Of  your  balsam  and  your  resin,  ^ 

So  to  close  the  seams  together 
That  the  water  may  not  enter, 
That  the  river  may  not  wet  me  !  " 

And  the  Fir  Tree,  tall  and  sombre, 
Sobbed  through  all  its  robes  of  darkness, 
Rattled  like  a  shore  with  pebbles, 
Answered  wailing,  answered  weeping, 
"  Take  my  balm,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 

And  he  took  the  tears  of  balsam, 
Took  the  resin  of  the  Fir  Tree, 
Smeared  therewith  each  seam  and  fissure, 
Made  each  crevice  safe  from  water. 

"Give  me  of  your  quills,  O  Hedgehog! 
All  your  quills,  O  Kagh,  the  Hedgehog ! 
I  will  make  a  necklace  of  them, 
Make  a  girdle  for  my  beauty, 
And  two  stars  to  deck  her  bosom  ! " 

From  a  hollow  tree  the  Hedgehog 
With  his  sleepy  eyes  looked  at  him, 
Shot  his  shining  quills,  like  arrows, 
Saying,  with  a  drowsy  murmur, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


273 


Through  the  tangle  of  his  whiskers, 
"Take  my  quills,  O  Hiawatha  !" 

From  the  ground  the  quills  he  gathered, 
All  the  little  shining  arrows, 
Stained  them  red  and  blue  and  yellow, 
With  the  juice  of  roots  and  berries  ; 
Into  his  canoe  he  wrought  them, 
Round  its  waist  a  shining  girdle, 
Round  its  bows  a  gleaming  necklace, 
On  its  breast  two  stars  resplendent. 

Thus  the  Birch  Canoe  was  builded 
In  the  valley,  by  the  river, 
In  the  bosom  of  the  forest ; 
And  the  forest's  life  was  in  it, 
All  its  mystery  and  its  magic, 
AH  the  lightness  of  the  birch  tree, 
A.H  the  toughness  of  the  cedar, 
AH  the  larch's  supple  sinews ; 
And  it  floated  on  the  river 
kike  a  yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 
Like  a  yellow  water-lily. 

Paddles  none  had  Hiawatha, 
Paddles  none  he  had  or  needed, 
For  his  thoughts  as  paddles  served  hita, 
And  his  wishes  served  to  guide  him  ; 
Swift  or  slow  at  will  he  glided, 
Veered  to  right  or  left  at  pleasure. 

Then  he  called  aloud  to  Kwasind, 


To  his  friend,  the  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Saying,  "  Help  me  clear  this  river 
Of  its  sunken  logs  and  sand-bars." 

Straight  into  the  river  Kwasind 
Plunged  as  if  he  were  an  otter, 
Dived  as  if  he  were  a  beaver, 
Stood  up  to  his  waist  in  water, 
To  his  arm-pits  in  the  river, 
Swam  and  shouted  in  the  river, 
Tugged  at  sunken  logs  and  branches, 
With  his  hands  he  scooped  the  sand-bars, 
With  his  feet  the  ooze  and  tangle. 

And  thus  sailed  my  Hiawatha 
Down  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 
Sailed  through  all  its  bends  and  windings, 
Sailed  through  all  its  deeps  and  shallows, 
While  his  friend,  the  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Swam  the  deeps,  the  shallows  waded. 

Up  and  down  the  river  went  they, 
In  and  out  among  its  islands, 
Cleared  its  bed  of  root  and  sand-bar, 
Dragged  the  dead  trees  from  its  channel, 
Made  its  passage  safe  and  certain, 
Made  a  pathway  for  the  people, 
From  its  springs  among  the  mountains, 
To  the  waters  of  Pauwating, 
To  the  bay  of  Taquamenaw. 


SEA-WE£D. 


WHEN  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  sea-weed  from  the  rocks : 


Ev^r  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 

Currents  of  the  restless  main ; 
Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaches, 
All  have  found  repose  again. 


From  Bermuda's  reefs  ;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges, 
In  some  far  off,  bright  Azore  ; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides  : 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas  ;  — 

18 


So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  oelong 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  t»  song: 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth  ; 
From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth  ; 


274 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavor 

That  forever 

Wrestles  with  the  tides  of  Fate ; 
From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate ;  — 


Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 

Currents  of  the  restless  heart ; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 


THE  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

<* 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

£  Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 

And  a' feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 

% 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 
}fk 
Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay. 
That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 

And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  rrand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 


Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest  ^ 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

-»r 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  vpice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 


BETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 


From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 


I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet 


A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 


GEORGE   LUNT. 


275 


A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall  I 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall  ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 
O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair ; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me  ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his,  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine  1 


Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  I 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 
And  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 
In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away  I 


GEORGE   LUNT. 

George  Lunt  was  born  in  Newburyport,  Mass.,  in  the  year  1807.  He  was  graduated 
at  Harvard  College  in  1824,  studied  law,  and  commenced  practice  in  his  native  town.  He 
removed  to  Boston  in  1848,  when  he  was  appointed  United  States  district  attorney.  He 
has  written  a  number  of  poems  of  more  than  ordinary  merit,  but  it  is  chiefly  by  his  strong  and 
manly  prose  that  he  has  won  his  place  among  authors.  Mr.  Lunt  has  been  a  constant  con- 
tributor to  the  newspaper  press,  and  for  many  years  was  editor  of  the  Boston  Courier,  and 
many  of  his  published  essays  appeared  first  in  that  paper.  Mr.  Lunt  is  a  strong  conserva- 
tive in  his  opinions,  and,  like  other  earnest  men,  does  not  allow  his  readers  to  miss  the  les- 
sons which  he  draws  from  history  for  their  benefit.  His  style  is  vigorous  and  often  elo- 
cjtient,  showing  the  culture  of  a  scholar  as  well  as  the  power  of  sustained  thought. 
A  volume  of  his  poems  was  published  in  1839.  The  Age  of  Gold,  a  poem,  appeared  in  1843, 
Culture  in  1845,  The  Dove  and  the  Eagle  in  1851,  Lyric  Poems  in  1854,  Julia  in  1855, 
Eastford,  a  novel,  in  1855,  Three  Eras  of  New  England  in  1857,  Radicalism  in  Religion, 
Philosophy,  and  Social  Life,  in  1858,  The  Origin  of  the  Late  War,  traced  from  the  Begin- 
ning of  the  Constitution  to  the  Revolt  of  the  Southern  States  in  1867. 

[From  Three  Eras  of  New  England.] 

FOR  never  again  can  there  be  such  preparation  and  such  a  result. 
No  unexplored  continent  is  again  to  cheer  the  eye  of  the  long- 
baffled  and  almost  despondent  mariner  —  now  doubted,  as  if  it  must 
be  only  some  delusive  aoud,  and  now  rehailed  with  the  joyful  cry 
of  "  Land  !  "  as  it  rises,  low  and  distant,  under  the  eyelids  of  the 
morning,  along  the  dim  horizon  of  the  dreary  main.  Never  again, 
by  some  yet  unborn  Columbus,  will  a  new  world  be  given  to  the 
kingdom  of  Castile  and  Leon.  Never  again  will  human  memorials 
be  emblazoned  with  the  enduring  record  of  all  their 

"  better  fortitude 
Of  patience  and  heroic  martyrdom." 


2/6  HAXD-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

Never  will  be  re-lighted  the  gospel-kindling  fires  of  Smithfield ; 
never  be  re-written  a  like  affecting  story  of  the  unexampled  exile  of 
Leyden  ;  never  such  a  history  of  that  one  perilous  traverse  of  the 
unknown  deep;  —  instead  of  the  southern  verdure  which  hope  had 
fondly  anticipated  and  portrayed,  to  picture  the  bare,  blank  aspect 
of  that  wild,  inhospitable  sand  cape,  to  tell  of  the  half-timorous  yet 
half-hostile  greeting  of  the  savage,  of  the  biting  and  bitter  welcome 
of  winter,  and  all  from  which  the  heart  shrinks,  as  the  eye  wanders 
over  that  simple  narrative  of  dangers  where  there  was  no  fear,  and 
sufferings  where  there  was  no  despair.  For  my  own  part,  I  care 
little  for  the  natural  imperfections  of  such  men.  It  is  superfluous  to 
defend  the  founders  of  New  England.  A  vain  and  thankless  task 
is  his,  who  attempts  to  under-estimate  their  virtues,  or  to  detract  from 
the  majestic  proportions  of  the  gray  fathers  of  the  people.  Their 
personal  faults  passed  with  them  into  the  grave  ;  their  just  princi- 
ples and  noble  actions  survived  and  blossomed  into  a  living  harvest 
of  sacred  and  immortal  memory.  .  .  . 

If  nothing  else  had  ever  been  written  in  their  favor,  there  are  two 
records,  at  least,  which  will  last  forever  to  their  praise.  When  the 
first  colony  which  fled  from  the  persecutions  of  home,  on  the  eve 
of  their  departure  for  their  future  habitation  in  the  wilderness,  was 
now  about  to  bid  that  final  and  most  affecting  farewell  to  those 
hospitable  arms,  which  Christian  Holland  had  opened  for  their 
refuge,  the  magistrates  of  Leyden  solemnly  declared  that  during  their 
residence  of  twelve  years,  —  which  we  well  know  were  years  of  almost 
unparalleled  trials  and  privations,  —  "  these  English  "  had  not  troubled 
the  city  with  a  single  suit  or  any  sort  of  controversy  ;'and  the  great- 
est historian  in  England,  regarding  their  religious  opinions  with  dis- 
dain, and  their  political  tendencies  with  a  strongly-defined  and  sys- 
tematic hostility,  yet  pronounced,  "  so  absolute  was  the  authority  of 
the  crown,  that  the  precious  spark  of  liberty  had  been  kindled  by  the 
Puritans  alone,  and  it  was  to  this  sect  that  the  English  owe  the  whole 
freedom  of  their  constitution. 


[From  the  Uses  and  Abuses  of  the  Daily  Press.] 

AND  what  would  we  not  gladly  give  for  some  old  newspapers, 
which  suggest  themselves  as  amongst  the  possibilities  of  the  imagi- 
nation ?  Bring  us  in,  if  you  please,  a  file  of  the  Crusader.  I 
should  like  to  look  over  again  the  telegraphic  report  of  that  stir- 
ring sermon  of  Peter  the  Hermit,  which  raised  Europe  out  of  itself, 


GEORGE   LUNT. 

and  sent  the  flower  and  chivalry  and  the  yeomanry  of  Christendom, 
for  a  cause  of  the  heart,  if  not  of  the  understanding,  to  do  battle 
and  perish,  piously  and  thankfully,  on  the  burning  plains  of  Syria. 
Let  us  read,  as  they  transpired,  the  events  of  that  pictured  nar- 
rative, which  has  intermingled  with  the  tissue  of  the  world's  his- 
tory one  broidered  filament  of  golden  romance,  lasting  as  its 
annals,  and,  now  and  forever,  twining  itself  inextricably  around 
all  the  social  relations  of  civilized  life.  What  price  would  be  too 
dear,  for  an  Independent  Press,  for  example,  or  the  Daily 
Clarion,  of  the  period,  proclaiming,  in  trumpet  tones,  its  denun- 
ciation of  that  brutal  Henry  of  England,  who  made  a  shambles 
of  his  loves ;  or  of  his  still  bloodier  daughter,  who  slew  the  inno- 
cent for  their  faith?  .  .  . 

Or,  what  should  we  say  to  the  Puritan  Recorder,  of  1620, 
faintly  portraying  the  inexpressible  emotions  of  Carver,  and  Brad- 
ford, and  Brewster,  and  Standish,  and  the  rest,  as  they  launched 
upon  the  scarcely  traversed  ocean  of  their  pilgrimage,  to  brave 
the  commingled  yet  conflicting  elements  of  the  coming  winter  and 
the  unknown  sea,  and  left,  with  lingering  looks,  the  home  of  their 
human  aifections,  that  they  might  peacefully  commune,  in  the  exile 
of  a  savage  land,  with  the  dearer  home  of  their  souls  ! 

And  yet  who  would  care  to  see  glittering  blazonry  of  human 
history  sobered  down  the  homely  daub  of  utilitarian  philosophy, 
or  reduced  within  the  petty  compass  of  a  pen-and-ink  sketch  ? 
Who  would  wish  that  all  the  sacred  and  tender  mysteries  of  life 
should  be  accurately  sounded,  and  surveyed,  and  mapped  out 
before  his  eyes,  and  every  gleaming  headland  on  the  vast  ocean 
of  time,  taken  in  its  bearings  and  distances,  with  the  clear  and 
sober  certainty  of  geometrical  analysis  ?  I  rejoice  that  there  is  yet 
something  uncertain,  secret,  mysterious,  indefinable,  grand  —  alto- 
gether out  of  the  scope  of  the  peering  researches  and  shallow 
philosophy,  and  hasty,  unreflecting  speculations  of  the  day.  I  re- 
joice that  there  are  yet  left  gaps  and  fissures,  along  the  .royal 
highway  of  Time,  beyond  all  engineering  art  to  level  and  subdue, 
which  only  Imagination  can  fill  up  with  her  own  deepening  colors, 
and  people  with  forms,  and  shapes,  and  fancies  of  her  own  legiti- 
mate creation. 


2/8  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


<^KATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS^ 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  was  born  in  Portland,  Me.,  January  20,  1807.  He  was  grad- 
uated at  Yale  College  in  1827.  Some  of  his  most  popular  poems,  including  his  Scripture 
Sketches,  were  written  while  he  was  in  college.  He  established  the  American  Monthly 
Magazine  in  1828,  which,  after  an  existence  of  two  or  three  years,  was  merged  in  the  New 
York  Mirror.  A  small  volume  of 'his  Fugitive  Poetry  was  published  in  Boston  in  1829. 
He  went  to  Europe  in  1831,  and  while  on  his  tour  wrote  a  series  of  letters  for  the  Mirror, 
entitled  Pencillings  by  the  Way.  His  journey  ended  in  England  in  1835,  where  the  Pencil- 
lings  were  published,  in  a  collected  form,  in  three  volumes,  and  where  the  author  was  married. 
His  next  work,  Inklings  of  Adventure,  appealed  in  1836,  and  was  republished  in  the  United 
States.  The  following  year  Mr.  Willis  returned  home,  and  settled  at  Gienmary,  near 
Owego,  N.  Y.  After  two  years  he  revisited  England,  and,  in  1840,  published  Letters 
from  Under  a  Bridge,  and,  shortly  after,  Loiterings  of  Travel,  also  two  dramas,  entitled 
Two  Ways  of  Dying  for  a  Husband.  In  1845  he  published  another  collection  of  sketches, 
entitled  Dashes  at  Life  with  a  Free  Pencil.  About  a  year  later  the  Home  Journal  was 
established  by  our  author,  in  connection  with  Mr.  George  P.  Morris,  the  song-writer.  He 
published,  in  1848,  a  collection,  entitled  Poems  of  Early  and  After  Years.  The  remaining 
works  of  Mr.  Willis  are  mostly  reprinted  from  the  columns  of  the  Journal.  They  are  Rural 
Letters  (1849),  People  I  Have  Met  (1850),  Life  Here  and  There  (1850),  Hurry  Graphs 
(1851),  Memoranda  of  a  Life  of  Jenny  Lind  (1851),  Fun  Jottings  (1853),  A  Health  Trip  to 
the  Tropics  (1853),  A  Summer  Cruise  in  the  Mediterranean  (1853),  Famous  Persons  and 
Places  (1854),  Out  Doors  at  Idlewild  (1854),  The  Rag  Bag  (1855),  Paul  Fane,  a  novel 
(1856),  The  Convalescent  (1860). 

His  health  had  been  delicate  for  many  years,  as  may  be  inferred  from  some  of  the  titles 
of  his  works,  but  the  disease  had  been  resisted  and  kept  in  check  by  country  life  and  active 
habits.  He  died  in  January,  1867. 

Mr.  Willis  had  great  natural  gifts.  His  perceptions  were  quick  ;  his  instinctive  sense  of 
color  and  of  harmony  pervades  both  prose  and  verse  ;  his  spirits  were  so  lively  that  He  could 
never  be  dull,  whatever  other  offences  he  might  commit.  His  landscapes  and  rural  scenes 
are  so  exquisitely  painted  that  we  are  sure  his  love  of  country  life  was  his  strongest  feeling. 
But  he  could  never  have  been  a  studious  recluse ;  there  was  always  a  telegraph  or  carrier- 
pigeon,  or  letter,  or  what  not  —  something  that  brought  the  news  and  gossip  of  the  great 
world,  and  told  the  interesting  hermit  what  "society  "  thought  of  his  latest  letter  or  poem. 
This  same  "  society  "  is  answerable  for  the  author's  most  serious  faults.  His  early  stories 
and  sketches  abound  in  stanhopes,  blooded  horses,  champagne,  star-eyed  poets,  and  glorious 
damsels.  That  style  of  writing,  flippant,  Frencky,  and  dashing  (and  fascinating  too,  as  we 
must  allow  it  to  be),  would  seem  to  have  originated  with  Bulwer's  Pelham,  if  that  self-satis- 
fied Adonis  had  ever  taken  the  trouble  to  write  anything.  To  play  the  double  role  of  hard- 
working author  and  squire  of  dames,  to  correct  proof  in  the  morning  when  one  is  meditating 
the  bans  mots  for  the  evening,  is  too  much  of  a  burden.  And  we  rather  wonder,  in  view  of 
the  life  he  must  have  led,  that  he  retained,  as  he  did,  his  early  freshness  of  feeling,  and 
wrote  so  much  that  was  admirable.  That  his  pictures  should  reflect  too  faithfully  the  super- 
ficial glitter  of  fashion,  the  unworthy  ambitions  of  artificial  life,  and,  above  all,  the  affecta- 
tions that  mark  the  speech  and  the  manners  of  "  society,"  was  not  to  be  avoided.  Genius 
has  no  business  with  such  people. 

The  Fable  for  Critics,  which  we  have  quoted  before,  contains  a  witty  sketch  of  our  author, 
in  which  there  are  a  few  lines,  referring  to  the  Letters  from  Under  a  Bridge,  that  show  a 
warm  appreciation. 

"  No  volume  I  know  to  read  under  a  tree 
More  truly  delicious  than  his  A  FA  brt, 


NATHANIEL    PARKER   WILLIS.  279 

With  the  shadows  of  leaves  flowing  over  your  book, 
Like  ripple-shades  netting  the  bed  of  a  brook  ; 
With  June  coming  softly  your  shoulder  to  look  over, 
Breezes  waiting  to  turn  every  leaf  of  your  book  over, 
And  Nature  to  criticise  still  as  you  read,  — 
The  page  that  bears  that  is  a  rare  one  indeed." 

The  Scripture  scenes  have  been  the  most  popular  of  Willis's  poems,  and  they  have  the 
merit  of  preserving  the  pathos  and  much  of  the  simplicity  of  the  original  narrations. 

Mr.  Willis  had  a  kindly  and  generous  nature,  full  of  sympathy,  especially  to  young 
writers.  He  was  doubtless  annoyed  by  the  receipt  of  letters,  from  all  sorts  of  people,  as 
successful  authors  always  are  ;  but,  unlike  some  of  his  brethren,  he  always  had  a  kind,  sen- 
sible, and  judicious  answer  to  give.  There  are  many  who  will  remember  this  trait  with  deep 
gratitude. 

THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 

ON  the  cross-beam,  under  the  Old  South  bell, 

The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 

In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 

Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air  : 

I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 

With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 

Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 

Till  across  the  dial  his  shadow  has  passed, 

And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last. 

'Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 

And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat ; 

There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 

And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 

And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel — 

He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 


Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell  — 

Chime  of  the  hour  or  funeral  knell  — 

The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 

When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon, 

When  the  sexton  cheerily  rings  for  noon, 

When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light, 

When  the  child  is  waked  with  "  nine  at  night," 

When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 

Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer,  — 

Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 

He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 


2SO  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 

He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 

Then  drops  again  with  filmed  eyes, 

And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird  !  I  would  that  I  could  be 

A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee  ! 

With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 

Thy  lot  like  mine  is  cast  with  men  ; 

And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 

I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 

But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 

Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world  and  soar, 

Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 

Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast^ 

And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 


[From  Melanie.] 
IV. 

A  CALM  and  lovely  paradise 

Is  Italy,  for  minds  at  ease. 
The  sadness  of  its  sunny  skies 

Weighs  not  upon  the  lives  of  these. 
The  ruined  aisle,  the  crumbling  fane, 

The  broken  column,  vast  and  prone  — 
It  may  be  joy,  it  may  be  pain, 

Amid  such  wrecks  to  walk  alone. 
The  saddest  man  will  sadder  be, 

The  gentlest  lover  gentler  there  — 
As  if,  whate'er  the  spirit's  key, 

It  strengthened  in  that  solemn  air. 

The  heart  soon  grows  to  mournful  things, 

And  Italy  has  not  a  breeze 
But  comes  on  melancholy  wings  ; 

And  even  her  majestic  trees 
Stand  ghostlike  in  the  Caesar's  home, 

.As  if  their  conscious  roots  were  set 
In  the  old  graves  of  giant  Rome, 

And  drew  their  sap  all  kingly  yet ! 


SATHAXIEL   PARKER  WILLIS.  2' I 

And  every  stone  yoor  feet  beneath 

Is  broken  from  some  mighty  thooght ; 
And  sculptures  in  the  dost  stffl  breathe 

The  fire  with  which  their  fines  were  wrooght; 
And  sondered  arch,  and  pondered  tomb, 
Stffl  thunder  back  the  echo,  «  Rome." 

Yet  gayiy  o'er  Egeria's  fount 

The  ivy  flings  its  emerald  veil, 
And  flowers  grow  cur  on  Mama's  mount, 

And  light-sprung  arches  span  the  dale; 
And  soft,  from  CaracaUa's  baths, 

The  herdsman's  song  comes  down  the  breeze, 
While  cfimb  his  goats  the  giddy  paths 

To  grass-grown  architrave  and  frieze  ; 
And  gracefully  AJbano's  bin, 

Carves  into  the  horizon's  fine  ; 
And  sweetly  sings  that  dassic  rffl ; 

And  feiriy  stands  that  nameless  shrine  ; 
And  here,  O.  many  a  sultry  noon, 
And  starry  eve,  that  happy  Jane, 

Came  Angelo  and  Mdanie ! 
And  earth  for  us  was  all  in  tone  — 

For  while  Love  talked  with  them,  Hope  walked 
afkvl  with  me. 


SPIRITS. 

THE  shadows  lay  along  Broadway — 
Twas  near  the  twilight  tide — 

And  slowly  there  a  hoy  fen- 
Was  walking  in  her  pride. 

Alone  walked  she;  but,  viewkssry, 
Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  Honor  charmed  the  air, 
And  aO  astir  looked  kind  on  her, 

And  called  her  good  as  feir— 
For  aU  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 


282       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 
From  lovers  warm  and  true  — 

For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 
And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo  — 

But  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell 
If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale  ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail  — 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  forlorn, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow, 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray ; 

For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way  ! 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven, 
By  man  is  cursed  alway. 


[From  Inklings  of  Adventure.] 
A  SCENE  ON  NAHANT  BEACH. 

WE  recline,  as  it  were,  in  an  ebon  pyramid,  with  a  hundred  feet 
of  floor  and  sixty  of  wall,  and  the  fourth  side  open  to  the  sky. 
The  light  comes  in  mellow  and  dim,  and  the  sharp  edges  of  the 
rocky  portal  seem  let  into  the  pearly  arch  of  heaven.  The  tide 
is  at  half  ebb,  and  the  advancing  and  retreating  waves,  which  at 
first  just  lifted  the  fringe  of  crimson  dulse  at  the  lip  of  the  cavern, 
now  dash  their  spray-pearls  on  the  rock  below,  the  '*  tenth  "  surge 
alone  rallying  as  if  in  scorn  of  its  retreating  fellows,  and,  like  the 
chieftain  of  Culloden  Moor,  rushing  back  singly  to  the  contest. 
And  now  that  the  waters  reach  the  entrance  no  more,  come  for- 
ward and  look  on  the  sea.  The  swell  lifts  !  — would  you  not  think 
the  bases  of  the  earth  rising  beneath  it  ?  It  falls  !  — would  you  not 
think  the  foundation  of  the  deep  had  given  way  ?  A  plain,  broad 
enough  for  the  navies  of  the  world  to  ride  at  large,  heaves  up 
evenly  and  steadily  as  if  it  would  lie  against  the  sky,  rests  a  mo- 
ment spellbound  in  its  place,  and  falls  again  as  far  —  the  respiration 


NATHANIEL    PARKER   WILLIS.  283 

of  a  sleeping  child  not  more  regular  and  full  of  slumber.  It  is 
only  on  the  shore  that  it  chafes.  Blessed  emblem  !  it  is  at  peace 
with  itself!  The  rocks  war  with  a  nature  so  unlike  their  own, 
and  the  hoarse  din  of  their  border  onsets  resounds  through  the 
caverns  they  have  rent  open  ;  but  beyond,  in  the  calm  bosom  of 
the  ocean,  what  heavenly  dignity  !  What  god-like  unconsciousness 
of  alarm  !  I  did  not  think  we  should  stumble  on  such  a  moral 
in  the  cave. 

By  the  deeper  base  of  its  hoarse  organ,  the  sea  is  now  playing 
upon  its  lowest  stops,  and  the  tide  is  down.  Hear  !  How  it  rushes 
in  beneath  the  rocks,  broken  and  stilled  in  its  tortuous  way,  till 
it  ends  with  a  washing  and  dull  hiss  among  the  seaweed,  and,  like 
a  myriad  of  small  tinkling  bells,  the  dripping  from  the  crags  is 
audible.  There  is  fine  music  in  the  sea ! 

And  now  the  beach  is  bare.  The  cave  begins  to  cool  and  darken, 
and  the  first  gold  tint  of  sunset  is  stealing  into  the  sky,  and  the 
sea  looks  of  a  changing  opal,  green,  purple,  and  white,  as  if  its 
floor  were  paved  with  pearl,  and  the  changing  light  struck  up  through 
the  waters.  And  there  heaves  a  ship  into  the  horizon,  like  a  white- 
winged  bird  lying  with  dark  breast  on  the  waves,  abandoned  of 
the  sea  breeze  within  sight  of  port,  and  repelled  even  by  the  spicy 
breath  that  comes  with  a  welcome  off  the  shore.  She  comes  from 
"  merrie  England."  She  is  freighted  with  more  than  merchandise. 
The  homesick  exile  will  gaze  on  her  snowy  sail  as  she  sets  in 
with  the  morning  breeze,  and  bless  it ;  for  the  wind  that  first  filled 
it  on  its  way  swept  through  the  green  valley  of  his  home  !  What 
links  of  human  affection  brings  she  over  the  sea  ?  How  much 
comes  in  her  that  is  not  in  her  "  bill  of  lading,"  yet  worth,  to  the 
heart  that  is  waiting  for  it,  a  thousand  times  the  purchase  of  her 
•  whole  venture  !  .  .  . 

Slowly,  Thalaba  !  Tread  gingerly  down  this  rocky  descent.  So, 
here  we  are  on  the  floor  of  the  vasty  deep.  What  a  glorious  race- 
course !  The  polished  and  printless  sand  spreads  away  before  you 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  the  surf  comes  in  below,  breast  high  tfre  it 
breaks,  and  the  white  fringe  of  the  sliding  wave  shoots  up  the  beach, 
but  leaves  room  for  the  marching  of  a  Persian  phalanx  on  the  sands 
it  has  deserted.  O,  how  noiselessly  runs  the  wheel,  and  how  dream- 
ily we  glide  along,  feeling  our  motion  but  in  the  resistance  of  the 
wind,  and  by  the  trout-like  pull  of  the  ribbons  by  the  excited  animal 
before  us  !  Mark  the  color  of  the  sand  !  White  at  high-water  mark, 
and  thence  deepening  to  a  silvery  gray  as  the  water  has  evaporated 


284  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

less  —  a  slab  of  Egyptian  granite  in  the  obelisk  of  St.  Peter's  not 
more  polished  and  unimpressible.  Shell  or  rock,  weed  or  quicksand, 
there  is  none  ;  and  mar  or  deface  its  bright  surface  as  you  will,  it  is 
ever  beaten  down  anew,  and  washed  even  of  the  dust  of  the  foot  of 
man  by  the  returning  sea.  You  may  write  upon  its  fine-grained  face 
with  a  crow-quill,  you  may  course  over  its  dazzling  expanse  with  a 
troop  of  chariots. 


CORNELIUS    CONWAY  FELTON. 

Cornelius  Conway  Felton  was  born  at  Newbury,  Mass.,  November  6,  1807.  He  was 
graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1827.  He  taught  a  high  school  in  Geneseo,  N.  Y.,  for 
two  years,  after  which  he  became  a  tutor  in  Harvard.  In  1832  he  was  appointed  professor 
of  the  Greek  language,  and,  two  years  later,  professor  of  Greek  literature.  In  this  con- 
genial position  he  remained  until,  in  1860,  he  was  chosen  president  of  the  university..  He 
made  a  tour  of  Europe  in  1853-4,  and  again  in  1858,  —  the  last  time  on  account  of  his  failing 
health.  He  was  in  the  city  of  Washington  on  the  occasion  of  the  inauguration  of  President 
Buchanan,  and  was  a  guest  at  the  National  Hotel  at  the  time  of  the  supposed  wholesale 
poisoning,  that  caused  so  many  deaths.  The  origin  of  that  mysterious  disease  will  probably 
never  be  known,  but  Professor  Felton  believed  that  it  was  arsenical  poison,  and  he  fre- 
quently declared  that  he  should  never  recover  from  its  effects.  His  anticipations  proved 
true;  his  health  gradually  declined,  and  he  died  Feb.  26,  1862. 

Professor  Felton's  life  was  an  active  one,  but  most  of  his  time  was  devoted  to  the  special 
department  he  had  chosen,  and  his  contributions  to  original  literature  are  not  numerous. 
He  published  editions  of  the  Greek  classics,  —  among  them  Homer,  The  Clouds  and  the 
Birds  of  Aristophanes,  the  Agamemnon  of  ^Eschylus.  He  delivered  three  courses  of  lec- 
tures, before  the  Lowell  Institute,  upon  subjects  connected  with  Grecian  history  and  litera- 
ture. A  volume  of  these  lectures  was  published  in  1867,  after  his  death.  Another  posthu- 
mous work  of  his,  Familiar  Letters  from  Europe,  was  published  in  1865.  t  He  performed  a 
great  amount  of  literary  labor,  the  value  of  which  only  scholars  can  appreciate,  such  as  the 
preparation  of  articles  for  cyclopaedias  and  for  literary  and  critical  periodicals.  He  was  a 
vigorous  writer,  possessing  strong  common  sense,  with  unaffected  enthusiasm  for  learning, 
and  a  temper  of  unfailing  cheerfulness.  There  was  a  heartiness  in  his  manner,  and  in  all 
he  did,  that  secured  universal  respect  and  good  will. 

The  extract  we  have  here  printed  will  show,  in  some  measure,  his  feelings  towards  the 
city  to  whose  art  and  letters  he  had  devoted  his  life. 

ATHENS,  November  6,  1853. 

LET  me  now  tell  you  more  fully  than  in  my  last  letter  how  I  spent 
my  first  Sunday  in  Athens.  In  the  forenoon  I  heard  Dr.  King,  the 
American  missionary,  preach  to  a  small  assembly  of  Greeks,  in  his 
own  house,  in  Greek  ;  an  excellent  sermon,  to  every  word  of  which  I 
could  cordially  assent.  Then  I  took  a  copy  of  the  Greek  New  Tes- 
tament, and,  walking  round  the  Acropolis  by  the  street  of  the  Tripods, 
and  along  the  upper  ranges  of  the  Dionysiac  Theatre,  passed  the 
Odeion  of  Herodes  Atticus  and  the  Propylaea,  down  into  the  valley 


CORNELIUS  CONWAY  FELTON.          285 

on  the  north  of  the  Acropolis,  and  up  the  stone  steps  to  the  Are- 
opagus. I  read  the  admirable  discourse  of  St.  Paul,  standing-,  as  he 
did,  "  in  the  midst  of  Mars'  Hill."  I  read  it  five  times,  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  —  twice  aloud,  in  presence  of  the  same  natural  fea- 
tures of  the  scene  that  lay  before  his  eyes,  and  many  of  the  grandest 
objects  of  art  that  he  saw,  ruinous,  but  still  sublime.  The  discourse 
in  the  Acts  is  evidently  only  a  sketch  of  the  sermon  as  it  was  deliv- 
ered, but  I  think  it  embraces  all  the  main  points.  Standing  there, 
on  an  elevated  rock,  "  in  the  midst  of  Mars'  Hill,"  silent,  with  the 
Acrcpolis  before  me,  covered  with  fragments  of  idols  and  ruins  of 
"  temples  made  with  hands,"  the  seats  of  the  Areopagites  around  me 
scarcely  traceable,  and  crumbling  with  age  and  the  weather,  and  no 
one  to  occupy  them  except  the  fancied  forms  of  the  Epicureans  and 
Stoics  who  encountered  St.  Paul,  I  could  well  understand  the  noble 
eloquence  with  which  the  apostle  spoke  to  his  curious  hearers  of  the 
"  God  that  made  the  world  and  all  things  therein,"  who  is  "  Lord  of 
heaven  and  earth,  and  dwelleth  not  in  temples  made  with  hands." 

These  words  are  even  more  striking  now  than  they  were  when 
St.  Paul  uttered  them.  Then  these  glorious  temples  stood  entire, 
and  the  statues  that  peopled  or  surrounded  them  seemed  like  an 
assembly  of  gods  ;  now  the  gods  are  prostrate,  or  carried  away  to 
adorn  the  museums  of  distant  lands.  Heads,  arms,  legs,  mutilated 
bodies,  majestic  and  beautiful  indeed,  but  thrown  down  from  their 
high  places  and  broken  in  pieces,  or  laboriously  put  together  by  the 
antiquary,  are  all  that  remain  around  the  ruinous  and  time-stained 
columns  which  stand  so  mournfully  on  the  spot  which  they  once 
made  the  central  point  of  Grecian  worship.  Surely  the  apostle's 
words  sound  more  solemn  after  eighteen  centuries  have  wrought 
so  tremendous  an  argument  for  their  truth.  If  any  temples  built  by 
human  hands  deserved  to  be  the  dwelling-place  of  God,  it  was  the 
temples  on  the  Acropolis  ;  and  what  are  they  now  ?  Wonderfully 
do  those  old  columns,  friezes,  and  architraves  stand  out  against  an 
Attic  evening  sky ;  wonderfully  do  they  reflect  the  rays  of  the  sun, 
as  he  comes  up  in  his  morning  splendor,  over  the  ridges  of  Hymet- 
tus.  But  God  is  in  the  setting  and  the  rising  sun  ;  he  is  enthroned 
on  the  blue  arch  of  the  sky ;  he  looks  down  from  yonder  crescent 
moon  that  hangs  over  the  Acropolis  ;  his  breath  is  the  soft  air 
which  sweeps  over  those  beautiful  mountains  and  these  spreading 
plains  :  but  surely  he  dwelleth  not  in  the  mouldering  temples,  made 
by  human  hands,  however  cunning.  St.  Paul,  having  so  powerfully 
declared  this  truth,  passes  on  with  admirable  tact,  and  brief  but 


286       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

effective  eloquence,  to  the  brotherhood  of  men,  and  the  future  judg- 
ment of  the  world  by  the  Saviour,  and  closes  most  impressively  with 
the  resurrection  of  the  dead. 

From  his  first  allusion  to  the  unknown  God,  he  kept  as  close  as 
possible  to  the  range  of  Grecian  thought.  For  Greeks  had  con- 
ceived, in  their  better  moments,  of  the  unity  of  God  and  his  spir- 
itual nature;  one  of  their  poets  —  quoted  happily  by  St.  Paul — • 
had  declared  that  men  were  the  children  of  God ;  the  doctrine  &. 
repentance  had  dawned  upon  the  souls  of  Socrates  and  Plato,  and 
a  future  judgment  was  distinctly  believed  and  taught  in  their 
schools  :  but,  when  he  spoke  of  the  resurrection  of  the  dead,  he 
suddenly  overleaped  the  boundaries  of  Grecian  thought,  and  left 
his  hearers  in  amazement,  gaining,  however,  some  proselytes, 
"  among  the  which  was  Dionysius,  the  Areopagite,  and  a  woman 
named  Damaris,  and  others  with  them." 

After  an  hour  or  two  on  the  Areopagus,  I  walked  across  the 
deserted  hollow  to  the  prison  of  Socrates.  Here  I  sat  down  on 
a  rocky  seat,  and  read  the  two  dialogues,  —  the  Criton  and  Phae- 
don  of  Plato,  —  the  scene  of  which  is  placed  here.  They  contain, 
I  have  no  doubt,  the  substance  of  the  conversations  of  Socrates 
with  his  disciples,  during  the  last  two  days  of  his  life,  and  are 
remarkable  for  the  truly  Christian  character  of  the  moral  and  even 
the  religious  doctrines  taught  by  that  incomparable  man.  It  must 
have  been  within  a  few  feet  of  the  place  where  I  sat  that  these 
conversations  were  held.  .  .  . 

When,  towards  sunset,  I  walked  away  from  that  consecrated 
prison,  the  scenes  and  conversations,  so  vividly  represented  by 
Plato,  seemed  to  have  just  taken  place  ;  and  as  I  looked  up  to  the 
Areopagus,  on  which  the  sun  was  still  shining,  I  seemed  to  hear 
the  voice  of  Paul,  enforcing  and  perfecting,  by  divine  authority, 
the  doctrines  as  to  duty  and  immorality,  towards  which  Socrates 
had  felt  his  way  by  the  guidance  of  reason  alone.  The  sunlight  on 
the  Areopagus,  compared  with  the  shades  of  Socrates's  prison, 
seemed  a  type  of  revelation,  contrasted  even  with  the  best  and 
clearest  deductions  of  the  unassisted  human  mind. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER.  28/ 


JOHN    GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  was  born  in  Haverhill,  Mass.,  in  December,  1807.  He  worked 
on  his  father's  farm  till  his  eighteenth  year,  when  he  attended  the  academy  for  two  years. 
His  mental  discipline  and  his  skill  in  writing  came  from  his  early  connection  with  the  news- 
paper press.  He  edited  a  political  newspaper  in  Boston,  afterwards  a  literary  weekly  at 
Hartford,  Conn.,  and  later  an  anti-slavery  journal  at  Philadelphia.  He  was  also  corre- 
sponding editor,  for  many  years,  of  the  National  Era,  at  Washington.  His  early  religious 
education  among  the  society  of  Friends  had  made  him  a  strong  opponent  of  slavery.  One 
of  his  earliest  prose  works  (1833)  was  a  discussion  of  that  question ;  and  the  volume  of 
poems,  that  first  gave  him  reputation,  was  entitled  Voices  of  Freedom.  His  principal 
prose  works  are  Leaves  from  Margaret  Smith's  Journal  (1836),  a  forcible  sketch  of  Puritan 
intolerance,  Old  Portraits  and  Modern  Sketches  (1850),  and  Literary  Recreations  (1854). 
His  poems  were  collected  in  an  elegant  volume  in  1850.  Other  volumes  appeared  later: 
Songs  of  Labor  in  1851,  The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits  in  1852,  The  Panorama  in  1856, 
Home  Ballads  in  1860,  In  War  Time  in  1863,  Snow  Bound  in  1865,  The  Tent  on  the 
Beach  in  1867,  Among  the  Hills  in  1868,  The  Pennsylvania  Pilgrim  in  1872. 

If  there  is  one  in  our  age  whom  all  men  will  admit  to  have  been  born  a  poet,  it  is  Whit- 
tier.  He  is  less  indebted  to  art,  to  scholastic  culture,  to  the  influences  of  literary  compan- 
ionship, and  to  other  adventitious  aids,  than  any  of  his  brethren.  To  him  "the  universe 
swims  in  an  ocean  of  similitudes,"  and  the  images  he  sees  and  embodies  in  verse  appear  to 
him  unsought.  The  few  and  simple  elements  of  the  landscapes  in  his  native  Essex — bleak 
hills,  broad  marshes,  and  the  sea  —  have  been  as  fertile  in  suggestions  to  him  as  though 
he  had  all  his  life  been  loitering  in  Eden.  Those  who  from  prejudice  had  failed  to  see  the 
genius  that  shone  in  his  fiery  lyrics,  were,  after  a  time,  forced  to  admire  the  pensive  beauty 
of  The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn,  the  pathetic  grace  of  Maud  Muller,  the  intense  realism  of 
the  winter  idyl  of  Snow  Bound,  the  vivid  picture  of  Skipper  Iresou's  Ride,  and  the  bright 
and  tender  memories  of  The  Barefoot  Boy. 

But  the  sensibilities  of  our  poet  have  not  been  touched  by  landscapes  and  ideal  pictures 
alone  :  he  is  the  poet  of  man  as  well  as  of  nature.  Though  shy  and  reserved,  he  has  not 
shut  himself  up  in  fastidious  seclusion,  but  has  borne  in  his  own  heart  the  sorrows  of  the 
poor  and  the  wronged.  He  is  a  fiery  apostle  of  human  brotherhood,  and  has  chanted 
anathemas  against  war,  and  every  form  of  cruelty  and  superstition. 

Had  Whittier  been  over-solicitous  about  classical  allusions  and  elegance  of  phrase,  the 
charm  of  freshness  might  have  vanished  from  his  verse.  His  muse  is  a  country  maid,  with 
a  free  step,  exuberant  health,  and  natural  graces ;  and  though  she  has  no  need  to  stand 
abashed  before  courtly  dames,  her  favorite  haunts  are  by  the  sea-shore  or  the  lakes  of  the 
north  ;  and  when  she  comes  among  men,  it  is  to  show,  to  those  whose  vision  has  been 
cleared  to  see,  that  heroism  is  not  merely  legendary,  and  that  an  aureole  of  heavenly  light  still 
hovers  over  every  scene  where  an  act  of  duty,  whether  high  or  humble,  is  bravely  done. 

Whittier  is  eminently  a  national  poet.  His  mind  is  in  full  sympathy  with  the  progressive 
ideas  of  the  new  world.  He  echoes  no  strains  from  foreign  singers,  and  has  no  thought  of 
a  foreign  audience.  What  he  has  written  is  a  product  as  natural  and  indigenous  as  our 
golden  maize  or  our  magnolia  blooms. 

It  is  surprising,  too,  in  looking  over  his  collected  poems,  to  notice  their  high,  uniform 
merit.  We  do  not  mean  what  is  sometimes  termed  a  "level  excellence  ;"  the  uniformity 
is  like  that  of  a  grand  chain  of  mountains.  The  quantity  of  verse  from  a  single  mind  that 
is  really  inspired,  fairly  wrought  in  artistic  form,  with  thought  and  melody  in  perfect  accord, 
is  generally  to  be  found  in  a  small  bulk.  How  many  pages  of  the  standard  poets  must  be 
skipped  by  the  most  tolerant  reader  I  But  Whittier  is  as  profuse  with  gems  as  lesser  bards 
are  with  imitations.  Even  the  space  of  an  essay  would  give  room  for  mentioning  only  the 
more  striking  passages. 


288  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

In  all  collections  of  our  literature  made  by  Englishmen,  the  want  of  appreciation  is  pain- 
fully evident.  But  we  cannot  forbear  saying  here,  that  there  are  now  living  in  this  country 
at  least  five  poets  for  whom  the  English  have  only  two  peers  —  Browning  and  Tennyson  ; 
and  for  those  in  all  lands  who  read  modern  verse  in  English,  and  are  sufficiently  cultivated 
to  know  and  enjoy  poetry,  the  productions  of  American  poets  constitute  a  large  portion  of 
their  entertainment. 

Mr.  Whittier  lives  in  Amesbury,  Mass.  His  health  is  delicate,  and  his  visits  to  the  city 
are  very  infrequent.  His  name  is  never  mentioned  but  with  respect  and  love. 

PROEM. 

I  LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try  ; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad,  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 
Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife,  are  here. 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies  ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 

Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 

The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind ; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 
Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 

A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown  ; 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER.  289 

O  Freedom  !  if  to  me  belong 
Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 

Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 
As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine  ! 


EVENING  BY   THE   LAKE-SIDE. 

YON  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night, 
While,  broad-orbed,  o'er  its  gleaming  crown 

The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 
On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles, 

Each  silver-hemmed  !     How  sharply  show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles 
And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below  ! 

How  far  and  strange  the  mountains  seem, 
Dim-looming  through  the  pale,  still  light ! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 
They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale, 
Hushed  by  that  presence  grand  and  grave, 

Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail, 
And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 

Fair  scenes  !  whereto  the  Day  and  Night 
Make  rival  love,  I  leaVe  ye  soon, 

What  time  before  the  eastern  light 
The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon 

Shall  hide  beyond  yon  rocky  spines, 
And  the  young  archer,  Morn,  shall  break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 
And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake  ! 

Farewell !  around  this  smiling  bay 

Gay-hearted  Health,  and  Life  in  bloom, 

With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may  stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come ; 
'9 


2QO       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than  I ; 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky ; 

How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay ; 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 

And  purpled  mountains  lead  the  day  ; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy, 

Nor  full-pulsed  manhood,  lingering  here, 

Shall  add,  to  life's  abounding  joy, 
The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear. 

Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 

Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 

Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall ; 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
His  perfect  recompense  to  all ! 

O,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night, 
And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face/ 

Lake  of  the  Northland  !  keep  thy  dower 
Of  beauty  stillj  and  while  above 

Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of  power, 
Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 

[From  The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn.] 
I. 

O'ER  the  bare  woods,  whose  outstretched  hands 
Plead  with  the  leaden  heavens  in  vain, 

I  see,  beyond  the  valley  lands, 

The  sea's  long  level  dim  with  rain. 

Around  me  all  things,  stark  and  dumb, 

Seem  praying  for  the  snows  to  come, 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

And,  for  the  summer  bloom  and  greenness  gone, 
With  winter's  sunset  lights  and  dazzling  morn  atone. 

II. 
Along  the  river's  summer  walk, 

The  withered  tufts  of  asters  nod  ; 
And  trembles  on  its  arid  stalk 

The  hoar-plume  of  the  golden-rod. 
And  on  a  ground  of  sombre  fir, 
And  azure-studded  juniper, 
The  silver  birch  its  buds  of  purple  shows, 
And  scarlet  berries  tell  where  bloomed  the  sweet  wild-rose. 

in. 

With  mingled  sound  of  horns  and  bells, 
A  far-heard  clang,  the  wild  geese  fly, 
Storm-sent,  from  Arctic  moors  and  fells, 

Like  a  great  arrow  through  the  sky, 
Two  dusky  lines  converged  in  one, 
Chasing  the  southward-flying  sun  ; 
While  the  brave  snow-bird  and  the  hardy  jay 
Call  to  them  from  the  pines,  as  if  to  bid  them  stay. 

IV. 

I  passed  this  way  a  year  ago  : 

The  wind  blew  south  ;  the  noon  of  day 
Was  warm  as  June's  ;  and  save  that  snow 

Flecked  the  low  mountains  far  away, 
And  that  the  vernal-seeming  breeze 
Mocked  faded  grass  and  leafless  trees, 
I  might  have  dreamed  of  summer  as  I  lay, 
Watching  the  fallen  leaves  with  the  soft  wind  at  play. 

v. 
Since  then,  the  winter  blasts  have  piled 

The  white  pagodas  of  the  snow 
On  these  rough  slopes,  and,  strong  and  wild, 

Yon  river,  in  its  overflow 
Of  spring-time  rain  and  sun,  set  free, 
Crashed  with  its  ices  to  the  sea  ; 
And  over  these  gray  fields,  then  green  and  gold, 
The  summer  corn  has  waved,  the  thunder's  organ  rolled. 


2Q2  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

VI. 

Rich  gift  of  God  !     A  year  of  time  ! 

What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of  day, 
What  hues  wherewith  our  Northern  clime 

Makes  autumn's  dropping  woodlands  gay, 
What  airs  outblown  from  ferny  dells, 
And  clover-bloom  and  sweetbrier  smells, 
What  songs  of  brooks  and  birds,  what  fruits  and  flowers, 
Green  woods  and  moonlit  snows,  have  in  its  round  been  ours  ! 

VII. 

I  know  not  how,  in  other  lands, 

The  changing  seasons  come  and  go ; 
What  splendors  fall  on  Syrian  sands, 

What  purple  lights  on  Alpine  snow  ! 
Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates  ; 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale, 
And  the  Alhambra's  halls  are  but  a  traveller's  tale. 

VIII. 

Yet,  on  life's  current,  he  who  drifts 

Is  one  with  him  who  rows  or  sails ; 
And  he  who  wanders  widest  lifts 

No  more  of  beauty's  jealous  veils 
Than  he  who  from  his  doorway  sees 
The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees, 
Feels  the  warm  Orient  in  the  noonday  air, 
And  from  cloud  minarets  hears  the  sunset  call  to  prayer ! 

IX. 

The  eye  may  well  be  glad,  that  looks 

Where  Pharpar's  fountains  rise  and  fall ; 
But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 

Laugh  in  the  sun,  has  seen  them  all. 
The  marble  palaces  of  Ind 
Rise  round  him  in  the  snow  and  wind  ; 
From  his  lone  sweetbrier  Persian  Hafiz  smiles, 
And  Rome's  cathedral  awe  is  in  his  woodland  aisles. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER.  293 

X. 

And  thus  it  is  my  fancy  blends 

The  near  at  hand  and  far  and  rare  ; 
And  while  the  same  horizon  bends 
Above  the  silver-sprinkled  hair 
Which  flashed  the  light  of  morning  skies 
On  childhood's  wonder-lifted  eyes, 
Within  its  round  of  sea,  and  sky,  and  field, 
Earth  wheels  with  all  her  zones,  the  Kosmos  stands  revealed. 

XVII. 

What  greetings  smile,  what  farewells  wave, 

What  loved  ones  enter  and  depart ! 
The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

The  Heaven-lent  treasures  of  the  heart  ! 
How  conscious  seems  the  frozen  sod 
And  beechen  slope  whereon  they  trod  ! 
The  oak-leaves  rustle,  and  the  dry  grass  bends 
Beneath  the  shadowy  feet  of  lost  or  absent  friends. 

XVIII. 

Then  ask  not  why  to  these  bleak  hills 

I  cling,  as  clings  the  tufted  moss, 
To  bear  the  winter's  lingering  chills, 

The  mocking  spring's  perpetual  loss. 
I  dream  of  lands  where  summer  smiles, 
And  soft  winds  blow  from  spicy  isles, 
But  scarce  would  Ceylon's  breath  of  flowers  be  sweet, 
Could  I  not  feel  thy  soil,  New  England,  at  my  feet ! 

XIX. 

At  times  I  long  for  gentler  skies, 

And  bathe  in  dreams  of  softer  air, 
But  homesick  tears  would  fill  the  eyes 

That  saw  the  Cross  without  the  Bear. 
The  pine  must  whisper  to  the  palm, 
The  north-wind  break  the  tropic  calm  ; 
And  with  the  dreamy  languor  of  the  Line, 
The  North's  keen  virtue  blend,  and  strength  to  beauty  join. 


294  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

XX. 

Better  to  stem  with  heart  and  hand 
The  roaring  tide  of  life,  than  lie, 
Unmindful,  on  its  flowery  strand, 
Of  God's  occasions  drifting^by  ! 
Better  with  naked  nerve  to  bear 
The  needles  of  this  goading  air, 
Than,  in  the  lap  of  sensual  ease,  forego 
The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike  aim  to  know. 

XXI. 

Home  of  my  heart !  to  me  more  fair 

Than  gay  Versailles  or  Windsor's  halls, 
The  painted,  shingly  town-house  where 

The  freeman's  vote  for  Freedom  falls  ! 
The  simple  roof  where  prayer  is  made, 
Than  Gothic  groin  and  colonnade  ; 
The  living  temple  of  the  heart  of  man, 
Than  Rome's  sky-mocking  vault,  or  many-spired  Milan  ! 

XXIII. 

And  sweet  homes  nestle  in  these  dales, 

And  perch  along  these  wooded  swells  ; 
And,  blest  beyond  Arcadian  vales, 

They  hear  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells  1 
Here  dwells  no  perfect  man  sublime, 
Nor  woman  winged  before  her  time, 
But  with  the  faults  and  follies  of  the  race, 
Old  home-bred  virtues  held  their  not  unhonored  place. 

XXV. 

Then  let  the  icy  north-wind  blow 

The  trumpets  of  the  coming  storm, 
To  arrowy  sleet  and  blinding  snow 

Yon  slanting  lines  of  rain  transform. 
Young  hearts  shall  hail  the  drifted  cold, 
As  gayly  as  I  did  of  old  ; 

And  I,  who  watch  them  through  the  frosty  pane, 
Unenvious,  live  in  them  my  boyhood  o'er  again. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 


295 


XXVI. 

And  I  will  trust  that  He  who  heeds 

The  life  that  hides  in  mead  and  wold, 
Who  hangs  yon  alder's  crimson  beads, 

And  stains  these  mosses  green  and  gold, 
Will  still,  as  He  hath  done,  incline 
His  gracious  care  to  me  and  mine  ; 
Grant  what  we  ask  aright,  from  wrong  debar, 
And,  as  the  earth  grows  dark,  make  brighter  every  star  ! 


THE  BATTLE   AUTUMN   OF    1 862. 


THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 

The  charging  trumpets  blow  ; 
Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 

No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And,  calm  and  patient,  Nature  keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well, 
Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  greenness  sweeps 

The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 

And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 

Through  harvest-happy  farms, 
And  still  she  wears  her  fruits  and  flowers 

Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

What  mean  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 

This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 
The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain 

And  yellow  locks  of  corn  ? 

Ah  !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 

And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot ; 
But  even-paced  come  round  the  years, 

And  Nature  changes  not. 

She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 
With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 


She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still,  in  the  cannon's  pause,  we  hear 
Her  sweet  thanksgiving  psalm  ; 

Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 
She  shares  the  eternal  calm. 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 
The  fires  that  blast  and  bum  ; 

For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow 
She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees  with  clearer  eye  than  ours 
The  good  of  suffering  born,  — 

The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers, 
And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

O,  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies ! 

O,  give  to  us  her  finer  ear  ! 

Above  this  stormy  din, 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in ! 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  I 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 


Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace. 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy  — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  I 

7 


296 


HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


Prince  thou  art  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy, 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 
\  Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  I 


O,  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild  flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl,  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  woodj^ 
How  the  tortoise  bears  hisshell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well  ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung  ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shinej/ 
Of  the  black-wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  ! 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

O,  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees  ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade  ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 


Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Mine  the  sand- rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides  1 
Still,  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Sieemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

O,  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread,  — 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy. 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat : 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  the  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  1 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 


297 


[From  Snow  Bound] 


THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 

Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 

And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 

A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 

Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out, 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 
That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 
Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east :  we  heard  the  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores,  — 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors, 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows  : 
Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn  ; 
And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows  ; 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 
The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent, 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent. 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 

The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 

A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 

As  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow : 

And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 

Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts. 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on  : 
The  morning  broke  without  a  sun  ; 
In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 
Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 
In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle, 
All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell.; 


And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow  ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous  shapes ;  strange  domes  and 

towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 
Or  garden  wall,  or  belt  of  wood  ; 
A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile  showed, 
A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road ; 
The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 
With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 
The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof; 
And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 
In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 
Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 
The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 
We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack  ' 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back,  — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick  ; 
The  knotty  fore-stick  laid  apart, 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush  ;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 
On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 
Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 
Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom  ; 
While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 
Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 
And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 
Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat; 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 


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HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed. 
The  house-dog,  on  his  paws  outspread, 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head  ; 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet, 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 

Our  uncle,  innocent  of  books, 

Was  rich  in  lore  of  fields  and  brooks ; 

In  moons,  and  tides,  and  weather  wise, 

He  read  the  clouds  as  prophecies, 

And  foul  or  fair  could  well  divine, 

By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign, 

Holding  the  cunning-warded  keys 

To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries ; 

Himself  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 

That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 

Of  beast  or  bird  had  meanings  clear, 

Like  Apollonius  of  old, 

Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told, 

Or  Hermes,  who  interpreted 

What  the  sage  cranes  of  Nilus  said ; 

A  simple,  guileless,  childlike  man, 

Content  to  live  where  life  began  ; 

Strong  only  on  his  native  grounds, 

The  little  world  of  sights  and  sounds 

Whose  girdle  was  the  parish  bounds, 

Whereof  his  fondly  partial  pride 

The  common  features  magnified, 

As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 

In  White  of  Selborne's  loving  view  ;  — 

He  told  how  teal  and  loon  he  shot, 

And  how  the  eagle's  eggs  he  got, 

The  feats  on  pond  and  river  done, 

The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun  ; 

Till,  warming  with  the  tales  he  told, 

Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold, 

The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew, 

From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons  flew, 

The  partridge   drummed  i'  the  wood,  the 

mink 

Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink. 
In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay, 
The  woodchuck,  like  a  hermit  gray, 
Peered  from  the  doorway  of  his  cell ; 


The  muskrat  plied  the  mason's  trade, 
And  tier  by  tier  his  mud-walls  laid  ; 
And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 

The  grizzled  squirrel  dropped  his  shell 

As  one  who  held  herself  a  part 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 

Against  the  household  bosom  lean, 
Upon  the  motley-braided  mat 
Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat, 
Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes, 

Now  bathed  within  the  fadeless  green 
And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 
O,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill, 

Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms, 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms, 
Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still  ? 
With  me  one  little  year  ago :  — 
The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow 

For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain  ; 
And  now,  when  summer  south-winds  blow, 

And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again, 
I  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 
I  see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod 
Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak 
The  hillside  flowers  she  loved  to  seek, 
Yet  following  me  where'er  I  went 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  content. 
The  birds  are  glad  ;  the  brier-rose  fills 
The  air  with  sweetness ;  all  the  hills 
Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky ; 
But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 
For  something  gone  which  should  be  nigh, 
A  loss  in  all  familiar  things, 
In  flower  that  blooms,  and  bird  that  sings. 
And  yet,  dear  heart  !  remembering  thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old  ? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality, 

What  change  can  reach  the  wealth  I  hold? 

What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and  gold 
Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with  me  ? 
And  while  in  life's  late  afternoon, 

Where  cool  and  long  the  shadows  grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  night  that  soon 

Shall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 
I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are ; 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand, 
And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand  ? 


RICHARD  HILDRETH. 

Yet,  haply,  in  some  lull  of  life,  To  warm  them  at  the  wood-fire's  blaze  ! 

Some  Truce  of  God  which  breaks  its  strife,  And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 

The  worldling's  eyes  shall  gather  dew,  Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown         » 

Dreaming  in  throngful  city  ways  From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 

Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew  ;  Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 

And  dear  and  early  friends  —  the  few  Wood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond ; 

Who  yet  remain  —  shall  pause  to  view  The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 

These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days ;  Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not  whence, 

Sit  with  me  by  the  homestead  hearth,  And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 

And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory  forth  The  benediction  of  the  air. 


RICHARD  HILDRETH. 

Richard  Hildreth  was  born  in  Deerfield,  Mass.,  June  28,  1807.  He  was  graduated  at 
Harvard  College  in  1826,  and,  after  reading  law  in  Newburyport,  removed  to  Boston,  and 
commenced  practice.  In  1832  he  became  the  editor  of  the  Boston  Atlas.  Being  in  delicate 
health,  he  went  to  the  South  in  1834,  and  resided  for  a  year  and  a  half  on  a  plantation.  This 
experience  suggested  to  him  the  idea  of  writing  a  novel  founded  on  the  vicissitudes  in  the 
life  of  a  slave.  Archy  Moore,  which  appeared  on  his  return,  was  therefore  the  first  anti- 
slavery  novel.  It  was  republished  in  England,  and  favorably  received.  B'ut  Mr.  Hildreth's 
mind  was  not  suited  to  writing  fiction,  nor  did  he  care  for  any  rhetorical  arts.  The  titles 
of  his  works  show  what  were  his  favorite  studies.  He  translated  Bentham's  Theory  of 
Legislation  from  the  French.  He  wrote  a  History  of  Banks,  Despotism  in  America,  which 
•was  a  discussion  of  the  subject  of  slavery,  also  a  Theory  of  Morals,  and  a  Theory  of  Politics. 
These  last  works  were  written  while  he  was  a  resident  in  Demerara.  His  most  important 
work  is  his  History  of  the  United  States,  in  six  volumes,  published  between  1849  and  1852, 
and  bringing  the  narrative  down  to  1820.  This  is  a  work  evincing  great  industry,  indepen- 
dent judgment,  and  unswerving  adherence  to  facts  as  he  saw  them.  The  style  is  singular- 
ly clear  and  pure,  and  the  arrangement  of  details  perspicuous.  There  is  not  a  passage  of 
"fine  writing"  or  declamation  in  it ;  in  which  respect  it  contrasts  favorably  with  Bancroft's 
History.  It,  is  as  if  he  had  said  to  his  countrymen,  "  If  you  want  to  know  what  has  really 
happened  in  the  settlement  of  this  country  and  in  the  foundation  of  the  government,  you  can 
read  these  pages ;  but  if  you  want  eloquence  and  political  disquisitions,  look  elsewhere." 
The  impression  left  by  Hildreth's  History  is  not  favorable  to  Jefferson  and  his  followers  ;  his 
hero  (if  sober  history  be  allowed  to  have  a  hero  !)  is  Hamilton.  Whether  the  view  of  Ban- 
croft or  that  of  Hildreth  be  the  true  one,  no  critic  can  now  with  certainty  affirm.  Every 
history  of  this  country  so  far  has  been  based  upon  more  or  less  partial  statements,  and  upon 
such  letters  as  have  been  permitted  to  see  the  light.  Each  historian  has  made  such  selec- 
tions as  will  make  effective  pictures,  and  place  the  actors  in  what  he  considers  their  true 
relative  positions.  Undoubtedly  many  letters  exist,  which  some  future  explorer,  like  Carlyle, 
may  bring  to  light,  and,  by  their  aid,  give  a  new  color  to  characters  and  events.  It  is  too 
soon  for  the  success  of  such  an  undertaking  as  yet.  This  generation  is  not  ready  to  accept 
as  true  the  traits  of  any  accurate  portrait  of  the  fathers,  nor  to  believe  that  our  governmental 
fabric  had  its  rise  among  precisely  such  selfish  intrigues,  struggles,  and  aspersion  of  motives 
as  are  prevalent  to-day. 

Mr.  Hildreth  published  a  work,  entitled  Japan  as  it  Was  and  Is,  a  compilation  of  value. 
He  was  connected  at  one  time  with  the  New  York  Tribune,  and  was  an  industrious  writer 
for  other  periodicals. 

His  frame  was  slender,  and  his  health  was  always  delicate.  He  died  at  Florence  in 
July,  1865. 


30O       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

[From  the  History  of  the  United  States.] 
THE   DEATH   OF   HAMILTON. 

IT  was  not  at  all  in  the  spirit  of  a  professed  duellist,  it  was  not 
upon  any  paltry  point  of  honor,  that  Hamilton  had  accepted  this 
extraordinary  challenge,  by  which  it  was  attempted  to  hold  him 
answerable  for  the  numerous  imputations  on  Burr's  character 
bandied  about  in  conversation  and  the  newspapers  fof  two  or  three 
years  past.  The  practice  of  duelling  he  utterly  condemned  ;  indeed, 
he  had  himself  been  a  victim  to  it  in  the  loss  of  his  eldest  son,  a  boy 
of  twenty,  in  a  political  duel  some  two  years  previously.  As  a 
private  citizen,  as  a  man  under  the  influence  of  moral  and .  religious 
sentiments,  as  a  husband  loving  and  loved,  and  the  father  of  a 
numerous  and  dependent  family,  as  a  debtor  honorably  disposed, 
whose  creditors  might  suffer  by  his  death,  he  had  every  motive  for 
avoiding  the  meeting.  So  he  stated  in  a  paper  which,  under  a  pre- 
monition of  his  fate,  he  took  care  to  leave  behind  him.  It  was  in  his 
character  of  a  public  man  ;  it  was  in  that  lofty  spirit  of  patriotism, 
of  which  examples  are  so  rare,  rising  high  above  all  personal  and 
private  considerations,  —  a  spirit  magnanimous  and  self-sacrificing 
to  the  last,  however  in  this  instance  uncalled  for  and  mistaken,  — 
that  he  accepted  the  fatal  challenge.  "  The  ability  to  be  in  future 
useful,"  —  such  was  his  own  statement  of  his  motives,  —  "  whether  in 
resisting  mischief  or  effecting  good  in  those  crises  of  our  public  affairs 
which  seem  likely  to  happen,  would  probably  be  inseparable  from  a 
:onformity  with  prejudice  in  this  particular." 

With  that  candor  towards  his  opponents  by  which  Hamilton  was 
sver  so  nobly  distinguished,  but  of  which  so  very  seldom,  indeed, 
did  he  ever  experience  any  return,  he  disavowed  in  this  paper —  the 
last  he  ever  wrote  —  any  disposition  to  affix  odium  to  Burr's  conduct 
in  this  particular  case.  He  denied  feeling  towards  Burr  any  personal 
ill  will,  while  he  admitted  that  Burr  might  naturally  be  influenced 
against  him  by  hearing  of  strong  animadversions  in  which  he  had 
indulged,  and  which,  as  usually  happens,  might  probably  have  been 
aggravated  in  the  report.  These  animadversions,  in  some  cases, 
might  have  been  occasioned  by  misconstruction  or  misinformation  ; 
yet  his  censures  had  not  proceeded  on  light  grounds  nor  from  un- 
worthy motives.  From  the  possibility,  however,  that  he  might  have 
injured  Burr,  as  well  as  from  his  general  principles  and  temper  in 
relation  to  such  affairs,  he  had  come  to  the  resolution,  which  he  left 
on  record,  and  communicated  also  to  his  second,  to  withhold  and 


RICHARD    HILDRETH.  30 1 

throw  away  his  first  fire,  and  perhaps  even  his  second ;  thus  giving 
Burr  a  double  opportunity  to  pause  and  reflect. 

The  grounds  of  Weehawken,  on  the  Jersey  shore,  opposite  New 
York,  were  at  that  time  the  usual  field  of  these  single  combats,  then, 
chiefly  by  reason  of  the  inflamed  state  of  political  feeling,  of  frequent 
occurrence,  and  very  seldom  ending  without  bloodshed.  The  day 
having  been  fixed,  and  the  hour  appointed  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  the  parties  met,  accompanied  only  by  their  seconds.  The 
bargemen,  as  well  as  Dr.  Hosack,  the  surgeon  mutually  agreed  upon, 
remained,  as  usual,  at  a  distance,  in  order,  if  any  fatal  result  should 
occur,  not  to  be  witnesses.  The  parties  having  exchanged  saluta- 
tions, the  seconds  measured  the  distance  of  ten  paces,  loaded  the 
pistols,  made  the  other  preliminary  arrangements,  and  placed  the 
combatants.  At  the  appointed  signal,  Burr  took  deliberate  aim,  and 
fired.  The  ball  entered  Hamilton's  side,  and  as  he  fell,  his  pistol  too 
was  unconsciously  discharged.  Burr  approached  him,  apparently 
somewhat  moved  ;  but  on  the  suggestion  of  his  second,  the  surgeon 
and  bargemen  already  approaching,  he  turned  and  hastened  away, 
Van  Ness  coolly  covering  him  from  their  sight  by  opening  an 
umbrella.  The  surgeon  found  Hamilton  half  lying,  half  sitting  on 
the  ground,  supported  in  the  arms  of  his  second.  The  pallor  of 
death  was  on  his  face.  "  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  this  is  a  mortal 
wound  ;  "  and  immediately  fainted,  as  if  overcome  by  the  effort  of 
speaking.  As  he  was  carried  across  the  river  the  fresh  breeze 
revived  him.  His  own  house  being  in  the  country,  he  was  conveyed 
at  once  to  the  house  of  a  friend,  where  he  lingered  twenty-four  hours 
in  great  agony,  but  preserving  his  composure  and  self-command  to 
the  last.  .  .  . 

In  Hamilton's  death  the  Federalists  and  the  country  experienced 
a  loss  second  only  to  that  of  Washington.  Hamilton  possessed  the 
same  rare  and  lofty  qualities,  the  same  just  balance  of  soul,  with  less 
indeed  of  Washington's  severe  simplicity  and  awe-inspiring  presence, 
but  with  more  of  warmth,  variety,  ornament,  and  grace.  If  the  Doric 
in  architecture  be  taken  as  the  symbol  of  Washington's  character, 
Hamilton's  belonged  to  the  same  grand  style  as  developed  in  the 
Corinthian  —  if  less  impressive,  more  winning.  If  we  add  Jay  for 
the  Ionic,  we  have  a  trio  not  to  be  matched,  in  fact  not  to  be  ap- 
proached, in  our  history,  if,  indeed,  in  any  other.  Of  earth-born 
Titans,  as  terrible  as  great,  now  angels,  and  now  toads  and  serpents, 
there  are  everywhere  enough.  Of  the  serene  and  benign  sons  of  the 
celestial  gods,  how  few  at  any  time  have  walked  the  earth  ! 


3O2  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

[From  Japan  as  it  Was  and  Is.] 
JAPAN   IN   THE   SIXTEENTH   CENTURY. 

THE  doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of  souls,  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguishing tenets  of  the  Buddhist  faith,  had  not  failed  to  confirm 
the  Japanese  in  a  distaste  for  animal  food,  which  had  originated, 
perhaps,  from  the  small  number  of  animals  natives  of  that  insular 
country  —  an  abstinence,  indeed,  which  even  the  ancient  religion  of 
Sinto  had  countenanced  by  denouncing  as  impure  the  act  of  killing 
any  animal,  or  being  sprinkled  with  the  slightest  drop  of  blood.  Of 
domestic  tame  animals,  the  Japanese  possessed  from  time  immemo- 
rial the  horse,  the  ox  the  buffalo,  the  dog,  and  the  cat ;  but  none  of 
these  were  ever  used  as  food.  The  Portuguese  introduced  the  sheep 
and  the  goat ;  but  the  Japanese,  not  eating  their  flesh  nor  under- 
standing the  art  of  working  up  their  wool  or  hair,  took  no  pains  to 
multiply  them.  The  Chinese  introduced  the  hog  ;  but  the  eating  of 
that  animal  was  confined  to  them  and  to  other  foreigners.  The  deer, 
the  hare,  and  the  wild  boar  were  eaten  by  some  sects,  and  some 
wild  birds  by  the  poorer  classes.  The  fox  was  hunted  for  its  skin, 
the  hair  of  which  was  employed  for  the  pencils  used  in  painting  and 
writing.  The  animal  itself,  owing  to  its  roguery,  was  believed  to  be 
the  residence  of  particularly  wicked  souls  —  an  idea  confirmed  by 
many  strange  stories  in  common  circulation.  The  tortoise  and  the 
crane  were  regarded  in  some  sort  as  sacred  animals,  never  to  be 
killed  nor  injured.  Whales  of  a  small  species  were  taken,  then  as 
now,  near  the  coast,  and  were  used  as  food,  as  were  many  other 
kinds  of  fish,  the  produce  of  the  sea  and  rivers.  Shell-fish  and 
certain  sea-weeds  were  also  eaten  in  large  quantities. 

The  soil  of  Japan,  being  of  volcanic  origin,  was  in  some  places 
very  fertile  ;  but  in  many  parts  there  were  rugged  and  inaccessible 
mountains,  the  sides  of  which,  not  admitting  the  use  of  the  plough, 
were  built  up  in  terraces  cultivated  by  hand.  Agriculture  formed 
the  chief  occupation  of  the  inhabitants,  and  they  had  carried  it  to 
considerable  perfection,  well  understanding  the  use  of  composite 
manures.  The  chief  crops  were  rice,  which  was  the  great  article  of 
food  ;  barley,  for  the  horses  and  cattle  ;  wheat,  used  principally  for 
vermicelli ;  and  several  kinds  of  peas  and  beans.  They  cultivated, 
also,  a  number  of  seeds,  from  which  oils  were  expressed ;  likewise 
cotton,  hemp,  the  white  mulberry  for  the  feeding  of  silk-worms  (silk 
being  the  stuff  most  in  use),  and  the  paper  mulberry  for  the  manu- 
facture of  paper.  To  these  may  be  added  the  camphor  tree,  which 


RICHARD    HILDRETH.  303 

grew,  however,  only  in  the  south-western  parts  of  Ximo,  the  Rhus 
vernix,  which  produces  the  celebrated  Japanese  varnish,  and  the 
tea-plant,  spoken  of  by  one  of  the  early  Portuguese  missionaries  as 
"  a  certain  herb  called  Chia,  of  which  they  put  as  much  as  a  walnut 
shell  may  contain  into  a  dish  of  porcelain,  and  drink  it  with  hot 
water."  From  rice  they  produced  by  fermentation  an  intoxicating 
drink,  called  saki,  which  served  them  in  the  place  of  wine,  and 
which  was  consumed  in  large  quantities.  A  yeast,  or  rather  vinegar, 
produced  from  this  liquor,  was  largely  employed  in  the  pickling  of 
vegetables.  Their  most  useful  woods  were  the  bamboo,  the  fir  of 
several  species,  and  the  cedar. 

They  understood  in  perfection  the  arts  of  weaving  silks  and  of 
moulding  porcelain,  and  excelled  in  gilding,  engraving,  and  especial- 
ly in  the  use  of  lacker  or  varnish.  They  also  were  able  to  manu- 
facture sword-blades  of  excellent  temper. 

As  in  other  Eastern  countries,  the  greater  nobles  exhibited  an 
extreme  magnificence  ;  but  trade  and  the  arts  were  held  in  low  esteem, 
and  the  mass  of  the  people  were  excessively  poor.  Their  buildings, 
though  they  had  some  few  solid  structures  of  stone,  were  principally 
light  erections  of  wood,  to  avoid  the  effects  of  frequent  earthquakes  ; 
but  this  and  the  varnish  employed  exposed  them  to  conflagrations, 
which,  in  the  towns,  were  frequent  and  destructive.  These  towns 
consisted,  for  the  most  part,  of  very  cheap  structures  (like  most  of 
those  throughout  the  East),  so  that  cities  were  built  and  destroyed 
with  equal  ease  and  celerity. 

Their  commerce  was  limited  almost  entirely  to  the  interchange  of 
domestic  products,  a  vast  number  of  vessels,  of  rather  feeble  struc- 
ture, being  employed  in  navigating  the  coasts  of  the  islands,  which 
abounded  with  deep  bays  and  excellent  harbors. 

Of  the  sciences,  whether  mathematical,  mixed,  or  purely  physical, 
they  knew  but  little.  They  had,  however,  a  considerable  number  of 
books  treating  of  religion,  medicine,  and  their  history  and  tradi- 
tions. The  young  were  instructed  in  eloquence,  poetry,  and  a  rude 
sort  of  painting  and  music,  and  they  had  a  great  fondness  for  theatri- 
cal representations,  in  which  they  decidedly  excelled.  Their  writing, 
in  which  they  greatly  studied  brevity,  was  in  columns,  as  with  the 
Chinese,  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  page,  for  which  they  gave 
this  reason  :  that  writing  ought  to  be  a  true  representation  of  men's 
thoughts,  and  that  men  naturally  stood  erect.  These  columns  read 
from  right  to  left.  They  employed,  besides  the  Chinese  ideographic 


304       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

signs,  a  syllabic  alphabet  of  their  own,  though  in  many  works  the 
Chinese  characters  were  freely  introduced. 

Jurisprudence,  as  in  most  Eastern  countries,  was  a  very  simple 
affair.  The  laws  were  very  few.  Heads  of  families  exercised 
great  power  over  their  households.  Most  private  disputes  were 
settled  by  arbitration ;  but  where  this  failed,  and  in  all  criminal  cases, 
a  decision  was  made  on  the  spot  by  a  magistrate,  from  whom  there 
was  seldom  any  appeal.  The  sentences  were  generally  executed  at 
once,  and  often  with  very  great  severity.  Whether  from  their 
temperament  or  their  belief  in  the  doctrines  of  transmigration  and 
annihilation,  it  was  observed  that  the  Japanese  met  death  with  more 
courage  than  was  common  in  Europe.  It  was,  indeed,  a  point  of 
honor,  in  many  cases,  to  inflict  it  on  themselves,  which  they  did  in 
a  horrid  manner,  by  cutting  open  their  bowels  by  two  gashes  in  the 
shape  of  a  cross.  The  criminal  who  thus  anticipated  execution 
secured  thereby  the  public  sympathy  and  applause,  saving  his 
property  from  confiscation,  and  his  family  from  death  ;  and,  upon 
the  death  of  superiors  or  masters,  the  same  fate  was  often,  as  a 
mark  of  personal  devotion  and  attachment,  self-inflicted ;  and  some- 
times, also,  in  consequence  of  a  disgrace  or  affront,  to  escape  or 
revenge  which  no  other  means  appeared.  The  missionaries  especial- 
ly noted  in  the  Japanese  a  pride,  a  self-respect,  a  haughty  magna- 
nimity, a  sense  of  personal  honor,  very  uncommon  in  the  East,  but 
natural  characteristics  enough  of  a  people  who  had  never  been  con- 
quered by  invaders  from  abroad ;  while  the  great  vicissitudes  to 
which  they  were  exposed  —  all  vassals  generally  sharing  the  fate  of 
their  superiors  —  made  them  look  upon  the  goods  and  evils  of 
fortune  in  a  very  philosophical  spirit. 


EDMUND   QUINCY. 

Edmund  Quincy  was  born  in  Boston,  February  i,  1808,  and  was  graduated  at  Harvard 
College  in  1827.  He  studied  law,  but  has  never  practised  the  profession,  being,  as  he  once 
jocosely  styled  himself,  "a  reformed  lawyer."  He  has  written  a  great  number  of  letters 
and  other  articles  for  periodicals,  characterized  by  a  peculiar  and  often  pungent  wit.  He 
published,  in  1854,  a  novel  entitled  Wensley,  a  Story  without  a  Moral.  It  has  a  racy  New 
England  flavor,  and  was  much  enjoyed  by  those  familiar  with  the  manners  of  fifty  years  ago. 
In  1867  he  published  a  life  of  his  father,  Josiah  Quincy,  a  work  of  great  interest  as  a  biog- 
raphy and  as  a  contribution  to  our  national  history,  and  exhibiting  clearly  the  literary 
culture,  taste,  and  judgment  of  the  author. 

Mr.  Quincy  resides  at  Dedham,  in  one  of  those  spacious  old  houses  which  few  men  in  our 
century  know  how  to  build,  and  fewer  still  how  to  enjoy. 


EDMUND    QUINCY.  305 

[From  the  Life  of  Josiah  Quincy.l 
A   PICTURE   OF   THE   TIME   OF    1790. 

BOSTON,  though  the  second  town  in  importance  in  the  United 
States,  contained  but  eighteen  thousand  inhabitants.  It  was  full  of 
"garden-houses,"  such  as  lingered  in  London  as  late  as  Milton's 
time,  and  in  one  of  which  he  once  lived.  Many  of  its  streets  —  and 
Pearl  Street  was  one  of  them  —  resembled  those  of  a  flourishing 
country  town  rather  than  of  the  capital  of  a  sovereign  state.  Cows 
were  pastured,  long  since  this  century  came  in,  where  the  thick 
houses  of  a  dense  population  now  crowd  one  another  for  room. 
Boys  played  ball  in  the  streets  without  disturbance,  or  danger  from 
the  rush  of  traffic.  The  Common  was  then,  and  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century  later,  properly  and  technically  "a  common,"  upon  which 
every  inhabitant  had  the  right  of  pasturing  his  cow.  These  "milky 
mothers,"  indeed,  were  very  prominent  members  of  society  at  that 
time,  and  for  long  afterwards,  and  had,  or  took,  the  freedom  of  the 
city  with  a  perfect  self-complacency,  perambulating  the  streets  at 
their  own  free  will  and  pleasure.  The  same  privileges  and  im- 
munities were  enjoyed  by  them  in  Boston  that  were  extended  then, 
and  until  within  my  own  observation,  in  New  York,  to  less  pastoral 
and  uncleaner  beasts.  Those  were  days  of  small  things  and  slow 
communications.  The  American  cities  and  communities  were  then 
individual  and  distinct  in  their  characteristics,  to  a  degree  scarcely 
conceivable  in  these  clays  of  multiplied  population  and  universal 
travel.  A  journey  to  New  York,  then  a  small  city  of  thirty  thousand 
souls,  was  a  much  rarer  event  in  life  then  than  a  voyage  to  Europe 
now.  It  took  nearly  as  long,  and  was  attended  with  greater  danger 
and  discomfort.  Two  stage-coaches  and  twelve  horses  sufficed  for 
the  travel  between  the  two  chief  commercial  places  on  the  continent 
in  1790,  and  the  journey  consumed  a  week.  The  visits  of  strangers 
were  rare  events,  and  always  the  occasions  of  general  and  eager 
hospitality.  The  Boston  of  that  day  was  a  pleasant  place  to  live  in. 
It  was  well  recovered  from  the  financial  embarrassments  which 
accompanied  and  followed  the  revolutionary  war  ;  and  the  revival  of 
commerce,  and  the  opening  of  fields  to  the  enterprise  of  the  mer- 
chants, closed  against  them  in  the  days  of  colonial  dependence,  were 
the  cause  of  a  great  and  growing  prosperity. 

The  intercourse  of  the  cultivated  society  for  which  Boston  was 
distinguished  was  conducted  on  simple  and  easy  terms.  The  hours 
were  early.  Private  parties  were  elegant,  according  to  the  style  of 
20 


306       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

the  time,  but  infrequent  in  comparison  with  friendly  gatherings  of  a 
more  informal  and  unceremonious  kind.  Public  assemblies  collected 
the  principal  inhabitants  once  a  fortnight  in  Concert  Hall,  where  the 
minuet  and  country-dance  yet  held  their  own  against  revolutionary 
innovations.  ...  . 

I  was  curious  to  know  how  my  father's  recollections  of  the  per- 
sonal appearance  of  Washington  agreed  with  the  popular  descriptions 
and  pictorial  representations  of  it  with  which  we  are  all  familiar. 
He  was  not  an  imaginative  man,  and  never  dressed  his  heroes  in 
the  colors  of  fancy.  No  man  had  a  profounder  reverence  for  Wash- 
ington than  he,  but  this  did  not  affect  his  perceptions  of  physical 
phenomena,  nor  his  recollections  of  them.  My  mother,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  "  of  imagination  all  compact,"  and  Washington  was  in  her 
mind's  eye,  as  she  recalled  him,  more  than  a  hero  —  a  superior 
being,  as  far  above  the  common  race  of  mankind  in  majesty  and 
grace  of  person  and  bearing  as  in  moral  grandeur.  This  was  one  of 
the  few  subjects  on  which  my  father  and  mother  differed  in  opinion. 
He  maintained  that  Stuart's  portrait  is  a  highly  idealized  one,  pre- 
senting its  great  subject  as  the  artist  thought  he  ought  to  live  in  the 
minds  of  posterity,  but  not  a  strong  resemblance  of  the  actual  man 
in  the  flesh.  He  always  declared  that  the  portrait  by  Savage,  in  the 
college  dining-room  in  Harvard  Hall,  at  Cambridge,  was  the  best 
likeness  he  had  ever  seen  of  Washington,  though  its '  merits  as  a 
work  of  art  are  but  small.  With  this  opinion  my  mother  could  not 
away.  Stuart's  Washington  could  hardly  come  up  to  the  gracious 
figure  that  dwelt  in  her  memory.  One  day,  when  talking  over  those 
times  in  his  old  age,  I  asked  my  father  to  tell  me  what  were  his 
recollections  of  Washington's  personal  presence  and  bearing.  "  I 
will  tell  you,"  said  he,  "just  how  he  struck  me.  He  reminded  me 
of  the  gentlemen  who  used  to  come  to  Boston  in  those  days  to 
attend  the  General  Court  from  Hampden  or  Franklin  County,  in  the 
western  part  of  the  state.  A  little  stiff  in  his  person,  not  a  little 
formal  in  his  manners,  not  particularly  at  ease  in  the  presence  of 
strangers,  he  had  the  air  of  a  country  gentleman  not  accustomed 
to  mix  much  in  society,  perfectly  polite,  but  not  easy  in  his  address 
and  conversation,  and  not  graceful  in  his  gait  and  movements."  .  .  . 

One  of  his  [Mr.  Quincy's]  favorite  schemes  was  the  substitution  of 
hawthorn  hedges  for  the  old-fashioned  rail  fence  of  New  England. 
They  kept  themselves  in  repair,  he  would  say,  and  so  saved  the  ex- 
pense of  renewing  the  fences  of  dead  wood,  which  was  a  material  item 
in  the  cost  of  farming.  At  one  time  his  whole  farm  was  fenced  only 


GEORGE   STILLMAN    HILLARD.  307 

with  this  verdurous  wall,  and  the  system  worked  exceeding  well  as 
long  as  the  cattle  were  kept  in  the  stalls.  But  when,  in  1823,  he  was 
obliged  to  give  up  the  supervision  of  his  paternal  acres  for  that  of 
the  city  of  Boston,  and  the  tenant  to  whom  he  let  them  insisted  on 
pasturing  Jiis  cows,  the  hedges  were  found  not  to  be  equal  to  the 
occasion.  A  hedge  might  be  sufficient  to  restrain  the  wanderings 
of  the  civilized  cattle  of  England,  which  had  been  accustomed  to  be 
led  into  fat  pastures  for  generations  ;  but  it  was  otherwise  with 
the  hardy  kine  of  New  Hampshire  and  Vermont,  whence  the  herds 
of  the  lowland  country  were  chiefly  recruited,  which,  brought  up  to 
browse  in  the  woods  and  on  the  mountains,  made  little  account  of 
any  obstacle  that  offered  itself  in  the  shape  of  green  leaves  and 
twigs.  The  thorns  they  seemed  to  regard  as  an  appetitizing  con- 
diment, —  a  kind  of  sauce  piquante,  —  thrown  in  to  increase  the 
pleasure  of  the  meal.  So,  in  the  end,  rail  fences  had  to  be  provided 
to  protect  the  hedges  from  the  beasts.  However,  his  experiment 
settled  the  hedge  question  as  far  as  New  England  was  concerned. 


GEORGE   STILLMAN   HILLARD. 

George  Stillman  Hillard  was  born  in  Machias,  Me.,  September  22,  1808.  He  was 
graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1828,  after  which  he  studied  law,  and  settled  in  Boston, 
where  he  has  ever  since  resided.  He  has  paid  a  divided  homage  to  law  and  literature,  and 
has  been  distinguished  at  the  bar  as  well  as  among  writers.  He  has  delivered  several  able 
discourses  on  public  occasions,  in  which  he  has  exhibited  brilliant  qualities  of  style,  and  the 
results  of  reading  and  culture.  He  visited  Europe  in  1847,  and  on  his  return  delivered  a 
course  of  lectures  before  the  Lowell  Institute.  His  notes  of  travel,  under  the  title  of  Six 
Months  in  Italy,  relate  mostly  to  ancient  and  mediaeval  art,  and  have  what  seems  to  be  a 
permanent  value.  Unlike  the  journals  of  most  tourists,  this  work  attracts  new  readers  with 
every  year,  and  is  as  fresh  to-day  as  when  it  appeared.  He  has  published  a  selection  from 
the  works  of  Walter  Savage  Landor,  and  an  edition  of  Spenser  in  five  volumes.  He  has 
written  many  valuable  articles  for  the  Christian  Examiner  and  the  North  American  Review, 
and  is  the  author  of  a  widely-known  series  of  school  readers. 

One  of  the  extracts  here  given  is  from  an  address  delivered  in  1846,  which  is  noticeable  as 
one  of  the  earliest  attempts  to  show  the  influences  of  physical  geography  upon  the  history 
of  mankind. 

[From  a  Lecture  on  the  Relations  between  Geography  and  History.] 

THE  peninsula  of  Greece  is  remarkable,  among  the  countries  of 
Europe,  for  those  peculiarities  which  distinguish  Europe  itself  from 
the  other  quarters  of  the  globe  —  for  the  number  of  its  natural  divis- 
ions, and  its  extent  of  sea-coast  compared  with  its  surface.  Though 
not  so  large  as  Portugal,  its  extent  of  sea-coast  is  greater  than  that 
of  Italy,  and  twice  as  great  as  that  of  France.  Peloponnesus  is  so 


3O8       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

embayed  and  indented  by  the  sea  that  it  has  been  aptly  likened  to 
the  human  hand,  stretched  out,  with  the  fingers  apart.  Thus  the 
voice  of  the  sea  was  ever  sounding  in  the  ears  of  the  Greek,  and 
from  every  mountain  height  its  blue  waters  were  seen  sparkling  in 
the  clear  distance.  It  essentially  contributed  to  the  formation  of 
that  bold,  active,  and  enterprising  spirit  which  characterized  the 
people.  The  murmur  of  its  waves  is  constantly  heard  in  the  litera- 
ture of  Greece,  as  in  that  of  England.  The  poetry  of  Homer  is  full 
of  ocean  influences.  Its  author  must  have  been  familiar  with  the 
sea  in  all  its  moods,  and  from  childhood  "  laid  his  hand  upon  its 
mane,"  like  that  strong  swimmer  of  our  own  age,  from  whom  these 
words  are  taken,  but  who,  unlike  the  old  Greek  bard,  drew  from  the 
ocean  not  the  spirit  of  its  central  repose,  but  its  bitterness,  its  tur- 
bulence, and  its  foam.  The  attachment  of  the  Greeks  to  the  sea  is 
illustrated  by  an  anecdote,  which  has  come  down  to  us,  of  a  Greek 
islander,  who,  when  he  was  carried  to  see  the  beautiful  vale  of 
Tempe,  coldly  remarked,  "  This  is  well ;  but  where  is  the  sea  ?  " 

Greece,  too,  was  as  much  a  land  of  the  mountain  as  of  the  flood. 
It  is  a  region  of  plains  and  hollows,  lying  in  the  laps  of  steep  moun- 
tain ranges,  which  can  in  many  places  be  traversed  only  by  narrow 
passes,  where  the  footing  is  difficult  and  dangerous.  States  lying 
near  each  other  were  completely  isolated  by  mountain  barriers. 
Hence  it  came  that  Greece  was  occupied  by  many  distinct  com- 
munities, differing  in  dialect  and  in  civil  and  religious  institutions, 
whose  struggles  and  rivalries  afforded  a  constant  excitement  to  the 
minds  of  the  inhabitants.  This  explains  the  fact  why  the  history 
of  Greece  is  so  crowded  with  events,  is  so  fruitful  in  political  instruc- 
tion, and  is  also  one  reason  of  the  beauty  and  variety  of  its  litera- 
ture. Of  the  various  dialects  of  Greece,  no  one  degenerated  into  a 
vulgar  or  provincial  patois,  but  each  was  a  refined  language,  used  to 
express  the  conceptions  best  suited  to  its  peculiar  character.  .  .  . 

Turning  from  Laconia  to  Attica,  we  perceive  a  marked  difference 
in  the  physical  characteristics  of  the  two  countries.  Attica  is  a 
peninsula  of  small  extent,  with  valleys  opening  upon  the  coast, 
which  abound  with  commodious  harbors,  and  inviting,  by  its 
position,  the  commerce  of  Asia.  Its  soil  was  light  and  poor,  produ- 
cing flowers  and  fragrant  shrubs  in  abundance,  and  well  adapted  to 
the  olive,  but  not  of  depth  and  body  enough  for  the  growth  of  wheat. 
Though  laboriously  and  skilfully  cultivated,  its  produce  was  never 
sufficient  to  supply  the  wants  of  the  inhabitants.  On  the  other 
hand,  Attica  had  mines  of  silver  and  abundant  quarries  of  marble. 


GEORGE   STILLMAN    HILLARD.  309 

Thus  the  Athenians  were  urged  to  a  maritime  life,  alike  by  the 
wealth  and  the  poverty  of  their  country,  and  they  early  became  bold 
and  successful  navigators.  The  passage  from  Greece  to  Asia  is 
rendered  easy  by  that  group  of  beautiful  islands,  which  extends,  like 
a  succession  of  natural  stepping-stones,  from  one  continent  to  the 
other.  A  glance  at  the  map  suggests  the  obvious  explanation  of 
those  relations  of  protection  and  dependence  which  so  long  existed 
between  Athens  and  these  islands.  We  see  how  natural  it  was  for 
that  powerful  maritime  city  to  bind  these  ocean  gems  into  a  coronet 
for  her  brow  of  sovereignty.  Athens,  by  its  position,  was  exposed 
to  assault,  and  was  consequently  more  than  once  captured. 

There  were  other  elements  common  in  various  degrees  to  the 
whole  of  the  Grecian  peninsula,  which  aided  in  the  wonderful 
development  of  the  human  mind  which  there  took  place.  The  air 
was  remarkable  for  its  clearness  and  purity,  as  is  shown  by  the 
excellent  preservation  in  which  those  monuments  of  art  are  still 
found  which  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  escape  the  destroying 
hand  of  man.  The  climate  was  admirably  suited  to  develop  both 
body  and  mind.  The  winters  were  severe  in  some  places,  but  gen- 
erally there  was  warmth  without  heat,  and  coolness  without  cold. 
The  cold  of  winter  was  tempered  by  the  genial  sea-breezes,  and  the 
heats  of  summer  mitigated  by  the  bracing  winds  from  the  mountains, 
many  of  whose  peaks  were  covered  with  snow  during  the  whole 
year.  The  soil,  with  very  few  exceptions,  was  of  that  kind  which 
stimulates  and  rewards  labor  ;  not  of  tropical  luxuriance,  but  richly 
repaying  the  husbandman's  toil.  Thus  all  the  influences  that  were 
around  the  ancient  Greek  were  adapted  to  quicken,  animate,  and 
inspire  ;  to  give  muscular  power  and  nervous  sensibility ;  to  create 
active  minds  in  vigorous  bodies  ;  and  there  is  the  same  analogy 
between  the  energetic  and  practical  character  of  the  Greek  intellect 
and  the  forms  and  expressions  of  nature  in  .Greece  which  we  observe 
between  the  dreamy  and  speculative  cast  of  the  Oriental  mind  and 
the  exhausting  heats  and  monotonous  plains  of  the  East. 

[From  an  Address  before  the  Mercantile  Library  Association,  1850.] 
THE   DANGERS   AND   DUTIES   OF   THE   MERCANTILE   PROFESSION. 

WE  are  inclined  to  pursue  too  keenly,  and  to  value  too  highly, 
what  is  called  success  in  life,  which  means  a  good  estate,  a  dis- 
tinguished social  position,  power,  influence,  and  consideration.  All 
the  elements  that  mould  the  growing  mind  tend  to  strengthen  this 


3IO  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

passion.  Open  the  common  biographies  which  are  written  for  our 
children,  and  what  do  you  find  set  down  in  them  ?  This  man,  when 
he  was  a  boy,  was  docile,  diligent,  and  frugal  ;  he  studied  hard  ;  he 
was  never  idle,  and  never  naughty ;  he  made  friends  ;  he  acquired 
knowledge  ;  he  laid  up  all  the  money  that  he  earned.  And  what 
was  the  result  ?  He  became  prosperous,  and  powerful,  and  rich  ;  he 
held  high  offices  and  enjoyed  great  honors,  and  was  esteemed  and 
exalted.  If  you  do  likewise,  you  will  be  what  he  was,  and  gain  what 
he  gained. 

This  is  but  another  form  of  appealing  to  the  love  of  excelling, 
rather  than  the  love  of  excellence  —  that  inferior  motive,  which, 
though  it  may  quicken  the  faculties,  dims  the  beauty  of  the  soul.  I 
confess  that  increasing  years  bring  with  them  an  increasing  respect 
for  men  who  do  not  succeed  in  life,  as  those  words  are  commonly 
used.  Heaven  has  been  said  to  be  a  place  for  those  who  have  not 
succeeded  upon  earth  ;  and  it  is  surely  true  that  celestial  graces  do 
not  best  thrive  and  bloom  in  the  hot  blaze  of  worldly  prosperity. 

Ill  success  sometimes  arises  from  a  superabundance  of  qualities 
in  themselves  good  —  from  a  conscience  too  sensitive,  a  taste  too 
fastidious,  a  self-forgetfulness  too  romantic,  a  modesty  too  retiring. 
I  will  not  go  so  far  as  to  say,  with  a  living  poet,  that  "  the  world 
knows  nothing  of  its  greatest  men,"  but  there  are  forms  of  great- 
ness, or  at  least  of  excellence,  which  "  die  and  make  no  sign ;  " 
there  are  martyrs  that  miss  the  palm,  but  not  the  stake  ;  heroes 
without  the  laurel,  and  conquerors  without  the  triumph. 

In  the  mercantile  profession,  the  acquisition  of  property  is  the 
obvious  index  of  success.  A  successful  merchant  is  a  rich  merchant. 
The  two  ideas  can  hardly  be  disjoined.  Thus  the  universal  passion  for 
the  prizes  of  life  is  apt,  in  your  case,  to  take  its  lowest  form  — that  of 
the  love  of  money.  I  would  hold  up  no  fanatical  or  ascetic  views  of  life 
for  your  admiration  and  applause.  Wealth  brings  noble  opportunities, 
and  competence  is  a  proper  object  of  pursuit ;  but  wealth,  and  even 
competence,  may  be  bought  at  too  high  a  price.  Wealth  itself  has 
no  moral  attribute.  It  is  not  money,  but  the  love  of  money,  which 
is  the  root  of  all  evil.  It  is  the  relation  between  wealth  and  the 
mind  and  the  character  of  its  possessor  which  is  the  essential  thing. 
It  is  the  passionate,  absorbing,  and  concentrated  pursuit  of  wealth, 
—  the  surrendering  of  the  whole  being  to  one  despotic  thought,— 
the  starving  of  all  the  nobler  powers,  in  order  to  glut  one  fierce  and 
clamorous  appetite  —  against  which  I  warn  you.  This  form  of 
idolatry  will  not  only  check  intellectual  growth,  but  it  is  adverse  to 


EDWARDS    A.    PARK.  311 

all  the  delicacies  and  refinements  of  virtue.  I  know  that  there  is  a 
certain  coarse  morality  which  draws  its  nutriment  from  the  soil  of 
its  dustiest  heart. 

I  know  that  to  steal,  and  commit  forgery,  and  swindle,  lead,  in  the 
long  run,  to  poverty  as  well  as  to  shame.  But  there  is  a  border-land 
between  unblushing  knavery  and  virgin  honesty,  into  which  success- 
ful forays  may  be  made  under  the  cloud  of  night  and  secrecy.  We 
say  that  honesty  is  the  best  policy,  but  no  man  was  ever  honest  who 
acted  from  mere  policy ;  and  it  is  also  not  true  that  the  best  honesty 
»s  the  best  policy. 

The  most  serviceable  honesty,  like  the  most  current  coin,  is  that 
In  which  the  fine  gold  of  virtue  is  mingled  with  the  alloy  of  worldly 
thrift.  The  most  successful  man  of  business,  other  things  being 
equal,  is  he  whose  habitual  course  of  dealing  is  so  far  upright  as  to 
admit  of  occasional  slight  deviations,  and  thus  give  the  color  of 
integrity  to  acts  in  themselves  doubtful.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  a 
"  losing  honesty,"  which  never  deliberates,  and  never  parleys,  which 
is  as  pure  as  the  snow  "  that's  bolted  by  the  northern  blast  twice 
o'er  ;  "  an  honesty  sometimes  crowned  with  brilliant  success,  but 
more  commonly  dwelling  with  modest  fortunes  and  a  lowly  estate. 


EDWARDS   A.   PARK. 

Edwards  A.  Park  was  born  in  Providence,  R.  I.,  December  29,  1808.  He  was  graduated 
at  Brown  University  in  1826,  received  his  theological  education  at  Andover,  Mass.,  and  was 
settled  in  1831  as  pastor  of  a  church  in  Braintrce.  In  1835  ne  was  appointed  professor  of 
moral  and  intellectual  philosophy  in  Amherst  College,  and  a  year  later  resigned  to  accept  a 
chair  at  Andover,  where  he  has  since  resided. 

Professor  Park's  published  works  have  naturally  growi:  out  of  his  professional  studies, 
and  are  mostly  doctrinal  in  their  character.  He  edited  the  Writings  of  the  Rev.  William 
Bradford  Homer,  with  a  Memoir,  the  Writings  of  Professor  B.  B.  Edwards,  with  a  Memoir. 
He  wrote  a  work  entitled  the  Preacher  and  Pastor,  and,  with  collaborators,  published  a  vol- 
ume of  Hymns,  also  a  treatise  on  hymnology,  entitled  Hymns  and  Choirs.  He  has  con- 
tributed to  current  theological  literature,  and  has  been  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Bibliotheca 
S.icra  from  the  beginning.  His  published  discourses  on  various  occasions  have  gained  for 
him  a  commanding  position  in  his  denomination.  His  sermons  are  weighty  with  thought, 
simple  in  diction,  direct  in  trleir  motive  and  argument,  and  leave  a  deep  impression  upon  the 
mind.  He  must  be  considered  as  one  of  the  ablest  of  the  clergy,  and  a  leading  representa- 
tive of  the  modern  school  of  New  England  theology. 

[From  Address  before  the  American  Education  Society,  May  30,  1865.] 

AT  the  present  time  ministers  need  treasures  of  knowledge,  not 
only  in  defending  the  truth,  but  also  in  making  it  attractive.  It  must 
be  made  attractive  ;  for  it  must  not  remain  true,  as  it  in  now  true, 


312       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

that  the  larger  part  of  our  countrymen  habitually  absent  themselves 
from  the  house  of  God.  The  surest  method  of  inducing  men  to  fre- 
quent the  sanctuary  is  that  of  exhibiting  the  facts  and  principles  of 
the  gospel  according  to  the  laws  of  the  human  mind.  Our  fathers 
exhibited  the  truth  in  a  style  adapted  to  their  day.  But  the  same 
style  is  not  adapted  to  the  present  day.  Every  age  has  its  own 
methods  of  thought.  Our  school-boys  are  learning  sciences  of  which 
our  ancestors  never  dreamed.  The  taste  of  the  populace  is  refined 
and  enriched  by  arts  unknown  to  the  universities  of  former  times. 
The  student  must  begin  his  work  early,  and  tarry  at  it  long,  if  he 
would  learn  the  fitnesses  of  doctrine,  as  now  proved  and  now  illus- 
trated, to  move  the  mind  of  men,  as  it  is  now  stored  with  ideas  and 
made  sensitive  and  delicate  by  culture.  Unless  the  pastor  adapt 
his  methods  of  thought  to  the  existing  state  of  his  hearers'  sensi- 
bilities, he  works  against  the  laws  which  God  has  made.  These 
laws  God  will  honor.  The  neglect  of  them  God  will  not  honor.  We 
have  no  more  reason  to  expect  that  he  will  bless  the  ministry  which 
sets  at  defiance  the  mental  forces  ordained  of  heaven,  than  that  he 
will  bless  the  mechanic  who  uses  the  lever  and  the  screw  in  defiance 
of  the  principles  on  which  the  lever  and  the  screw  act.  The  preacher 
can  do  nothing  without  God,  but  so  far  forth  as  he  is  a  co-worker 
with  God,  he  has  power,  not  indeed  his  own,  but  divine.  He  who 
made  the  forces  of  nature  made  them  to  be  helpers  of  man,  and  if  we 
comply  with  the  methods  in  which  these  forces  work,  we  are  amazed 
at  their  results.  We  put  up  our  wires  on  the  top  of  poles  over  which 
the  lightning  travels,  as  our  post-boy,  to  carry  our  mails  for  us.  We 
weave  our  cotton  and  wool  on  grounds  where  we  employ  the  law  of 
gravitation,  as  a  spinster,  to  turn  our  wheels  for  us.  Those  were 
shrewd  men  of  Boston,  who,  if  they  had  been  trained  theologians, 
would  have  been  wise  men  ;  for  they  erected  their  grist-mills  on  a 
spot  where  the  moving  tides  rolled  the  machinery  around,  and  thus 
they  made  use  of  the  moon,  as  a  miller,  to  grind  their  corn.  Still 
more,  if  a  minister  devoutly  comply  with  the  laws  of  mind,  may  he 
employ  them  as  the  winds  to  be  his  messengers,  and  as  the  lightning 
to  be  his  servants.  But  if  he  utter  the  truth  with  affected  tones, 
prim,  finical  gestures,  or  in  any  indolent,  or  inflated,  or  unfeeling 
method,  and  then  complain  that  his  hearers  are  inattentive  because 
they  are  totally  depraved,  his  complaint  is  ungraceful,  for  his  elocu- 
tion is  totally  corsupt.  If  he  fill  his  sermons  with  truisms,  vapid 
exhortations,  incoherent  thoughts,  and  then  say  that  the  pews  are 
empty  because  those  who  ought  to  be  in  them  are  sinners  by  nature, 


EDWARDS   A.    PARK.  313 

he  makes  a  one-sided  statement,  for  he  is  lazy  by  nature,  and  has 
not  schooled  himself  in  learning  and  obeying  the  laws  of  the  human 
soul.  If  he  will  raise  the  spiritual  building,  he  must  study  the  fit- 
nesses of  the  tenon  to  the  mortise.  .  .  . 

The  Puritan  worship  demands  the  art  of  extemporaneous  yet  ac- 
curate speech,  expressing  solid,  well-ordered,  yet  fresh,  out-gushing 
thought ;  an  art  which  requires  more  discipline  than  any  other  from 
the  human  artist,  and  when  fairly  attained  is  the  most  amazing  de- 
velopment of  the  divine  skill  on  earth,  developing  at  once  the  noblest 
faculties  of  the  body  and  the  soul  of  the  speaker  and  the  hearer. 
The  Puritan  worship  demands  an  art  of  song,  which  will  animate 
devotion,  and  will  at  the  same  time  be  devotion  ;  an  art  which  the 
pastor  must  understand,  and  must  excite  the  children  of  his  parish 
to  cultivate.  We  would  address  the  ear  in  the  sanctuary,  not  by 
such  music  as  flatters  economical  men  with  the  notion  that  they  can 
enjoy  just  as  fine  a  display  at  the  church  as  at  the  opera,  and  avoid 
paying  for  an  opera  ticket ;  not  by  such  music  as  prompts  the  wor- 
shippers to  inquire,  "  Was  not  that  piece  well  executed  ?  "  "  Was 
not  that  a  skilful  performance  ?  "  Not  by  such  music  as  sends  men 
home  conversing  about  the  interludes  of  the  organ,  rather  than 
thinking  about  the  sentiments  which  lay  hidden  between  the  inter- 
ludes, but  by  such  psalmody  as  will  not  obtrude  itself  for  criticism ; 
such  as  is  the  voice  of  the  prayer  of  the  congregation.  We  would 
address  the  eye  in  the  sanctuary,  not  by  massive  pillars  which  stand 
between  the  preacher  and  his  hearers,  and  hide  them  from  each 
other  ;  not  by  lofty  walls  which  drown  articulate  speech  in  an  unin- 
telligible echo  ;  but  by  such  a  style  of  architecture  as  gives  a  distinct, 
definite  sound  to  the  speaker's  voice,  and  predisposes  men  to  cherish 
the  faith  which  "  cometh  by  hearing  ;  "  such  a  style  of  architecture 
as  will  not  make  the  sanctuary  a  cathedral  on  the  one  hand,  nor  a 
lyceum  lecture-room  on  the  other  hand ;  but  a  sacred  place,  pecu- 
liar, set  apart,  still  a  place  fitted  for  man  as  man,  and  therefore 
giving  to  the  speaker  and  the  hearer  pure  air,  as  a  symbol  and  a 
means  of  pure  instruction  ;  admitting  the  light  of  heaven,  which  is  a 
symbol  of  spiritual  light,  and  enables  the  hearers  to  commune  with 
their  preacher,  to  carry  on  a  dialogue  with  him,  they  seeing  his  eye, 
and  he  discerning  whether  they  be  awake  or  asleep,  doubting  or  be- 
lieving, resisting  his  message  or  trying  to  understand  it ;  so  may  he 
speak  to  them  the  word  in  season.  A  dim  religious  light  is  in  good 
taste  for  a  mausoleum  ;  a  clear,  evangelical  light  is  in  keeping  with 
the  worship  of  Him  who  is  honored  not  by  mysticism  and  hazy  sen- 


314       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

timentalism,  but  by  clear  thought  and  unstained  principle.  The  per- 
fection of  art  in  the  sanctuary  is  to  make  all  its  forms  elastic,  so  that 
they  will  bend  with  the  turning  course  of  Providence,  with  the  wind- 
ing of  right  sentiment.  Where  there  is  parade  in  worship,  there  is 
no  true  art ;  where  the  fresh  love  of  the  soul  is  not  expressed  in  free 
utterance,  .  .  .  there  is  no  true  art.  Where  the  temple  of  truth 
is  hidden  under  and  behind  the  scaffolding  of  it,  there  art  has  only 
begun  its  work,  and  not  been  able  to  finish. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  August  29,  1809.  He  was  grad- 
uated at  Harvard  College  in  1829.  He  received  his  degree  of  M.  D.  in  1836,  after  some 
years  of  study,  both  at  home  and  in  medical  schools  abroad.  He  was  chosen  professor  of 
anatomy  and  physiology  in  Dartmouth  College  in  1838,  and  was  called  to  the  same  chair  in 
Harvard  College  in  1847. 

Dr.  Holmes  commenced  writing  poetry  at  an  early  age.  Referring  now  to  those  first 
attempts,  with  the  impressions  of  later  triumphs  in  mind,  we  are  almost  surprised  at  the 
beauty  of  many  lines,  as  under  the  splendor  of  a  declining  day  we  see  beauties  not  revealed 
to  us  in  the  morning  landscape.  Terpsichore,  Urania,  and  Poetry,  a  Metrical  Essay  — 
these  are  good  names  with  which  to  conjure  up  forms  of  youthful  grace.  And  those  after- 
dinner  poems  — who  can  refrain  from  envying  the  college  "dons"  their  enjoyment  of  that 
delicious  dessert  ? 

Upon  the  establishment  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in  1857,  Dr.  Holmes  commenced  a  series 
of  papers  entitled  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table.  This  proved  to  be  a  literary  event, 
and  the  appearance  of  each  successive  number  raised  the  fame  of  the  author  still  higher. 
The  next  year  he  followed  the  happy  invention  by  a  series  on  a  similar  plan,  entitled  The 
Professor  at  the  Breakfast  Table.  E'sie  Venner,  a  psychological  novel,  appeared  in  1861, 
and  The  Gmrdian  Angel  in  1867.  Another  series  of  delightful  essays, /entitled  The  Poet 
at  the  Breakfast  Table,  was  begun  in  the  Atlantic,  January,  1872. 

He  has  also  published  a  number  of  medical  works,  and  addresses,  and  a  very  powerful 
essay  upon  the  functions  of  the  brain,  entitled  Mechanism  in  Thought  and  Morals. 

There  are  authors  whose  qualities  are  ascertained  by  a  not  very  difficult  analysis.  The 
intellect  of  Holmes,  though  manifesting  many  and  strongly-marked  attributes,  eludes  all 
tests,  preserves  its  individuality,  and  remains  unclassified  among  original  elements.  When 
we  think  of  the  familiar  confidences  of  the  Autocrat,  we  might  liken  him  to  Montaigne.  But 
while  the  parallel  is  being  considered,  we  come  upon  passages  so  full  of  tingling  hits  or  of 
rollicking  fun,  that  we  are  sure  we  are  mistaken,  and  that  he  resembles  no  one  so  much  as 
Sydney  Smith.  But  presently  he  sounds  the  depths  of  our  consciousness,  explores  the  con- 
cealed channels  of  feeling,  flashes  the  light  of  genius  upon  our  half-acknowledged  thoughts, 
and  we  see  that  this  is  what  neither  the  great  Gascon  nor  the  hearty  and  jovial  Englishman 
could  have  attempted.  We  are  equally  puzzled  when  we  would  consider  his  verse.  The 
alternations  of  tender  sentiment,  humor,  and  mirthful  satire  might  remind  us  of  Hood. 
His  lyrics  have  the  high  spirit  of  the  best  pieces  of  Campbell.  The  charming  simplicity 
and  delicate  feeling  of  other  poems  recall  the  songs  of  Beranger.  Then  we  see  that  he  is 
like  them  all,  or  rather  like  neither.  Some  of  his  stanzas  have  a  compactness,  finish,  and 
lustre  that  we  may  fairly  call  Horatian  ;  no  one  since  Pope  has  condensed  so  much  power 
into  lines  of  such  elastic  movement. 


OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES.  315 

Though  he  has  written  prose  and  verse  with  equal  success,  and  would  have  been  famous 
in  either  field,  still  all  his  works  are  pervaded  by  the  same  original  and  characteristic  traits. 
It  is  difficult  to  consider  his  poetry  by  itself  when  there  is  constantly  breaking  into  our  inner 
chamber  of  judgment  a  troop  of  recollections  from  the  Autocrat :  Wit,  with  glittering  eye 
and  assailing  forefinger;  Irony,  with  mouth  awry,  one  side  of  the  face  severe,  and  the 
scornful  tongue  in  the  cheek  of  the  other ;  Puns,  like  Siamese  twins  in  harlequin  suits, 
turning  somersaults  ;  grave  figures  in  dominoes,  with  the  port  of  Lord  Bacon,  or  the  mock- 
ing smile  of  Voltaire  ;  and  \\hite-robed  Sentiment,  her  tender  bosom  heaving,  her  dewy 
tears  scarce  brushed  away,  and  she  mortally  afraid  of  being  made  ridiculous  by  some  prank 
of  the  merry  company. 

And  if  in  the  same  silent  session  we  were  to  take  up  the  most  brilliant  of  his  prose  works, 
we  should  hardly  turn  half  a  dozen  leaves  without  coming  upon  some  lyric  of  the  sea  or  the 
street,  some  delicate  strain  of  remembered  love,  or  sterling  lesson  of  duty,  or  scholastic  le- 
gend with  a  sting  in  its  tail ;  and  we  should  declare  that  Holmes  was  simply  and  purely  a  poet. 

In  the  Table  Talk  the  miracle  is,  th.it  one  mind  could  so  long,  from  its  own  resources,  as 
from  a  quarry,  furnish  those  monoliths  of  wisdom,  those  sculptured  forms  of  beauty,  and 
blazing  gems  of  illustration.  A  clever  writer  might  comment  forever  upon  daily  events  or 
current  literature,  as  Sainte-Beuve  did  in  his  Causeries  du  L,undi ',  but  to  turn  inward  his 
look,  to  interest  an  indifferent  public  solely  in  his  own  bright,  strange,  deep,  and  wayward 
thoughts  and  fancies,  to  suggest  subtile  resemblances  and  remote  associations  between  the 
outer  and  inner  world,  to  invest  intellectual  processes  with  such  a  charm  as  to  make  each 
reader  fancy  himself  (for  the  time)  another  Plato,  and  then  to  close  each  conversation  with 
a  hymn  of  fitting  beauty,  — to  be  able  so  to  illuminate  our  "thought's  interior  sphere"  is 
a  task  not  for  a  genie,  but  a  genius. 

Holmes  has  undoubtedly  suffered  in  the  estimation  of  the  unthinking  as  the  author  of 
comic  verses.  As  ha  himself  says,  they 

"  suspect  the  azure  blossom  that  unfolds  upon  the  shoot, 
As  if  wisdom's  old  potato  could  not  flourish  at  the  root." 

But  if  he  had  never  perpetrated  a  joke  he  would  have  been  one  of  the  most  original  of  essay- 
ists ;  and  when  the  world  forgets  the  sallies  that  have  set  tables  in  a  roar,  and  even  the 
lyrics  that  have  set  a  nation's  heart  on  fire,  still  his  picture  of  the  ship  of  pearl  will  preserve, 
his  name  forever. 

[From  the  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table.] 

BOATING. 

FOR  the  past  nine  years  I  have  rowed  about,  during  a  good  part 
of  the  summer,  on  fresh  or  salt  water.  My  present  fleet  on  the  river 
Charles  consists  of  three  row-boats,  i.  A  small,  flat-bottomed  skiff, 
of  the  shape  of  a  flat-iron,  kept  mainly  to  lend  to  boys  ;  2.  A  fancy 
"  dory,"  for  two  pairs  of  sculls,  in  which  I  sometimes  go  out  with 
my  young  folks  ;  3.  My  own  particular  water-sulky,  a  "  skeleton  " 
or  "  shell "  race-boat,  twenty-two  feet  long,  with  huge  outriggers, 
which  boat  I  pull  with  ten-foot  sculls  —  alone,  of  course,  as  it  holds 
but  one,  and  tips  him  out  if  he  doesn't  mind  what  he  is  about.  In 
this  I  glide  around  the  Back  Bay,  down  the  stream,  up  the  Charles 
to  Cambridge  and  Watertown,  up  the  Mystic,  round  the  wharves,  in 
the  wake  of  steamboats,  which  leave  a  swell  after  them  delightful  to 
rock  upon  ;  I  linger  under  the  bridges  —  those  "  caterpillar  bridges," 


3l6  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

as  my  brother  professor  so  happily  called  them  ;  rub  against  the 
black  sides  of  old  wood-schooners  ;  cool  down  under  the  overhang- 
ing stern  of  some  tall  Indiaman  ;  stretch  across  to  the  Navy  Yard, 
where  the  sentinel  warns  me  off  from  the  Ohio  — just  as  if  I  should 
hurt  her  by  lying  in  her  shadow  ;  then  strike  out  into  the  harbor, 
where  the  water  gets  clear  and  the  air  smells  of  the  ocean  —  till  all 
at  once  I  remember  that  if  a  west  wind  blows  up  of  a  sudden,  I  shall 
drift  along  past  the  islands,  out  of  sight  of  the  dear  old  State  House, 
—  plate,  tumbler,  knife  and  fork  all  waiting  at  home,  but  no  chair 
drawn  up  at  the  table  ;  all  the  dear  people  waiting,  waiting,  waiting, 
while  the  boat  is  sliding,  sliding,  sliding  into  the  great  desert,  where 
there  is  no  tree  and  no  fountain.  As  I  don't  want  my  wreck  to  be 
washed  up  on  one  of  the  beaches  in  company  with  devil's-aprons, 
bladder-weeds,  dead  horse-shoes,  and  bleached  crab-shells,  I  turn 
about  and  flap  my  long,  narrow  wings  for  home.  When  the  tide  is 
running  out  swiftly,  I  have  a  splendid  fight  to  get  through  the 
bridges,  but  always  make  it  a  rule  to  beat — though  I  have  been 
jammed  up  into  pretty  tight  places  at  times,  and  was  caught  once 
between  a  vessel  swinging  round  and  the  pier,  until  our  bones  (the 
boat's,  that  is)  cracked  as  if  we  had  been  in  the  jaws  of  Behemoth. 
Then  back  to  my  moorings  at  the  foot  of  the  Common,  off  with  the 
rowing-dress,  dash  under  the  green,  translucent  wave,  return  to  the 
garb  of  civilization,  walk  through  my  garden,  take  a  look  at  my  elms 
on  the  Common,  and,  reaching  my  habitat,  in  consideration  of  my 
advanced  period  of  life,  indulge  in  the  Elysian  abandonment  of  a 
huge  recumbent  chair. 

When  I  have  established  a  pair  of  well-pronounced  feathering- 
calluses  on  my  thumbs,  when  I  am  in  training  so  that  I  can  do  my 
fifteen  miles  at  a  stretch  without  coming  to  grief  in  any  way,  when  I 
can  perform  my  mile  in  eight  minutes  or  a  little  less,  then  I  feel  as 
if  I  had  old  Time's  head  in  chancery,  and  could  give  it  to  him  at  my 
leisure. 


THE   MELLOWING   PROCESS   OF   TIME. 

You  don't  know  what  I  mean  by  the  green  state  ?  Well,  then,  I 
will  tell  you.  Certain  things  are  good  for  nothing  until  they  have 
been  kept  a  long  while  ;  and  some  are  good  for  nothing  until  they 
have  been  kept  and  used.  Of  the  first,  wine  is  the  illustrious  and 
immortal  example.  Of  those  which  must  be  kept  and  used  I  will 
name  three  —  meerschaum  pipes,  violins,  and  poems.  The  meer- 


OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES.  317 

schaum  is  but  a  poor  affair  until  it  has  burned  a  thousand  offerings 
to  the  cloud-compelling  deities.  It  comes  to  us  without  complexion 
or  flavor  —  born  of  the  sea-foam,  like  Aphrodite,  but  colorless  as 
pallida  Mors  herself.  The  fire  is  lighted  in  its  central  shrine,  and 
gradually  the  juices  which  the  broad  leaves  of  the  Great  Vegetable 
had  sucked  up  from  an  acre,  and  curdled  into  a  drachm,  are  diffused 
through  its  thirsting  pores.  First  a  discoloration,  then  a  stain,  and 
at  last  a  rich,  glowing,  umber  tint  spreading  over  the  whole  surface. 
Nature  true  to  her  old  brown  autumnal  hue,  you  see  —  as  true  in 
the  fire  of  the  meerschaum  as  in  the  sunshine  of  October !  And 
then  the  cumulative  wealth  of  its  fragrant  reminiscences  !  He  who 
inhales  its  vapors  takes  a  thousand  whiffs  in  a  single  breath ;  and 
one  cannot  touch  it  without  awakening  the  old  joys  that  hang  around 
it  as  the  smell  of  flowers  clings  to  the  dresses  of  the  daughters  of  the 
house  of  Farina  ! 

[Don't  think  I  use  a  meerschaum  myself,  for/rtfo  not,  though  I 
have  owned  a  calumet  since  my  childhood,  which  from  a  naked 
Pict  (of  the  Mohawk  species)  my  grandsire  won,  together  with  a 
tomahawk  and  beaded  knife-sheath,  paying  for  the  lot  with  a  bullet- 
mark  on  his  right  cheek.  On  the  maternal  side  I  inherit  the  love- 
liest silver-mounted  tobacco-stopper  you  ever  saw.  It  is  a  little 
box-wood  Triton,  carved  with  charming  liveliness  and  truth  ;  I  have 
often  compared  it  to  a  figure  in  Raphael's  Triumph  of  Galatea.  It 
came  to  me  in  an  ancient  shagreen  case  ;  how  old  it  is  I  do  not 
know,  but  it  must  have  been  made  since  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  time. 
If  you  are  curious,  you  shall  see  it  any  day.  Neither  will  I  pretend 
that  I  am  so  unused  to  the  more  perishable  smoking  contrivance 
that  a  few  whiffs  would  make  me  feel  as  if  I  lay  in  a  ground-swell  on 
the  Bay  of  Biscay.  I  am  not  unacquainted  with  that  fusiform,  spiral- 
wound  bundle  of  chopped  stems  and  miscellaneous  incombustibles, 
the  cigar,  so  called,  of  the  shops  —  which  to  "  draw"  asks  the  suc- 
tion-power of  a  nursling  infant  Hercules,  and  to  relish,  the  leathery 
palate  of  an  old  Silenus.  I  do  not  advise  you,  young  man,  even  if 
my  illustration  strike  your  fancy,  to  consecrate  the  flower  of  your 
life  to  painting  the  bowl  of  a  pipe,  for,  let  me  assure  you,  the  stain 
of  a  reverie-breeding  narcotic  may  strike  deeper  than  you  think  for. 
I  have  seen  the  green  leaf  of  early  promise  grow  brown  before  its 
time  under  such  Nicotian  regimen,  and  thought  the  umbered  meer- 
schaum was  dearly  bought  at  the  cost  of  a  brain  enfeebled  and  a 
will  enslaved.] 

Violins,  too  —  the   sweet  old   Amati  !   the   divine   Stradivarius  ! 


3l8  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

Played  on  by  ancient  Maestros  until  the  bow-hand  lost  its  power, 
and  the  flying  fingers  stiffened.  Bequeathed  to  the  passionate 
young  enthusiast,  who  made  it  whisper  his  hidden  love,  and  cry  his 
inarticulate  longings,  and  scream  his  untold  agonies,  and  wail  his  mo- 
notonous despair.  Passed  from  his  dying  hand  to  the  cold  virtuoso, 
who  let  it  slumber  in  its  case  for  a  generation,  till,  when  his  hoard 
was  broken  up,  it  came  forth  once  more  and  rode  the  stormy  sym- 
phonies of  royal  orchestras,  beneath  the  rushing  bow  of  their  lord 
and  leader.  Into  lonely  prisons  with  improvident  artists ;  into 
convents  from  which  arose,  day  and  night,  the  holy  hymns  with 
which  its  tones  were  blended  ;  and  back  again  to  orgies  in  which  it 
learned  to  howl  and  laugh  as  if  a  legion  of  devils  were  shut  up  in  it ; 
then  again  to  the  gentle  dilettante,  who  calmed  it  down  with  easy 
melodies  until  it  answered  him  softly  as  in  the  days  of  the  old 
maestros.  And  so  given  into  our  hands,  its  pores  all  full  of  music  ; 
stained,  like  the  meerschaum,  through  and  through,  with  the  con- 
centrated hue  and  sweetness  of  all  the  harmonies  which  have  kindled 
and  faded  on  its  strings. 

Now  I  tell  you  a  poem  must  be  kept  and  tised,  like  a  meerschaum 
or  a  violin.  A  poem  is  just  as  porous  as  the  meerschaum,  —  the 
more  porous  it  is,  the  better.  I  mean  to  say  that  a  genuine  poem  is 
.capable  of  absorbing  an  indefinite  amount  of  the  essence  of  our  own 
humanity,  —  its  tenderness,  its  heroism,  its  regrets,  its  aspirations, 
—  so  as  to  be  gradually  stained  through  with  a  divine  secondary 
color  derived  from  ourselves.  So,  you  see,  it  must  take  time  to  bring 
the  sentiment  of  a  poem  into  harmony  with  our  nature  by  staining 
ourselves  through  every  thought  and  image  our  being  can  penetrate. 

Then,  again,  as  to  the  mere  music  of  a  new  poem  ;  why,  who  can 
expect  anything  more  from  that  than  from  the  music  of  a  violin  fresh 
from  the  maker's  hands  ?  Now  you  know  very  well  that  there  are 
no  less  than  fifty-eight  different  pieces  in  a  violin.  These  pieces  are 
strangers  to  each  other,  and  it  takes  a  century,  more  or  less,  to  make 
them  thoroughly  acquainted.  At  last  they  learn  to  vibrate  in  har- 
mony, and  the  instrument  becomes  an  organic  whole,  as  it  were  a 
great  seed  capsule,  which  had  grown  from  a  garden-bed  in  Cremona, 
or  elsewhere.  Besides,  the  wood  is  juicy  and  full  of  sap  for  fifty 
years  or  so,  but  at  the  end  of  fifty  or  a  hundred  more  gets  tolerably 
dry  and  comparatively  resonant. 

Don't  you  see  that  all  this  is  just  as  true  of  a  poem  ?  Counting 
each  word  as  a  piece,  there  are  more  pieces  in  an  average  copy  of 
verses  than  in  a  violin.  The  poet  has  forced  all  these  words  together, 


OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES.  319 

and  fastened  them,  and  they  don't  understand  it  at  first.  But  let  the 
poem  be  repeated  aloud,  and  murmured  over  in  the  mind's  muffled 
whisper  often  enough,  and  at  length  the  parts  become  knit  together 
in  such  absolute  solidarity  that  you  could  not  change  a  syllable  with- 
out the  whole  world's  crying  out  against  you  for  meddling  with  the 
harmonious  fabric. 


WHO  ARE   DISTURBED  BY   REFORMS. 

DID  you  never,  in  walking  in  the  fields,  come  across  a  large  fiat 
stone,  which  had  lain,  nobody  knows  how  long,  just  where  you  found 
it,  with  the  grass  forming  a  little  hedge,  as  it  were,  all  round  it, 
close  to  its  edges  ?  and  have  you  not,  in  obedience  to  a  kind  of  feel- 
ing that  told  you  it  had  been  lying  there  long  enough,  insinuated 
your  stick,  or  your  foot,  or  your  fingers  under  its  edge,  and  turned  it 
over  as  a  housewife  turns  a  cake,  when  she  says  to  herself,  "  It's 
done  brown  enough  by  this  time  "  ?  What  an  odd  revelation,  and 
what  an  unforeseen  and  unpleasant  surprise  to  a  small  community, 
the  very  existence  of  which  you  had  not  suspected,  until  the  sudden 
dismay  and  scattering  among  its  members  produced  by  your  turning 
the  old  stone  over  !  Blades  of  grass  flattened  down,  colorless, 
matted  together,  as  if  they  had  been  bleached  and  ironed  ;  hideous 
crawling  creatures,  some  of  them  coleopterous,  or  horny-shelled  — 
turtle-bugs  one  wants  to  call  them ;  some  of  them  softer,  but  cun- 
ningly spread  out  and  compressed  like  Lepine  watches  (Nature 
never  loses  a  crack  or  a  crevice,  mind  you,  or  a  joint  in  a  tavern 
bedstead,  but  she  always  has  one  of  her  flat-pattern  live  timekeep- 
ers to  slide  into  it) ;  black,  glossy  crickets,  with  their  long  filaments 
sticking  out  like  the  whips  of  four-horse  stage-coaches  ;  motionless, 
slug-like  creatures,  young  larvce,  perhaps  more  horrible  in  their 
pulpy  stillness  than  even  in  the  infernal  wriggle  of  maturity  !  But 
no  sooner  is  the  stone  turned,  and  the  wholesome  light  of  day  let 
upon  this  compressed  and  blinded  community  of  creeping  things, 
than  all  of  them  which  enjoy  the  luxury  of  legs  —  and  some  of  them 
have  a  good  many  —  rush  round  wildly,  butting  each  other  and 
everything  in  their  way,  and  end  in  a  general  stampede  for  under- 
ground retreats,  from  the  region  poisoned  by  sunshine.  Next  year 
you  will  find  the  grass  growing  tall  and  green  where  the  stone  lay  ; 
the  ground-bird  builds  her  nest  where  the  beetle  had  his  hole  ;  the 
dandelion  and  the  buttercup  are  growing  there,  and  the  broad  fans 
of  insect-angels  open  and  shut  over  their  golden  disks,  as  the  rhyth- 


32O       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

mic  waves  of  blissful  consciousness  pulsate  through  their  glorified 
being. 

The  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John  saw  fit  to  say,  in  his  very 
familiar  way,  —  at  which  I  do  not  choose  to  take  t>rFence,  but  which 
I  sometimes  think  it  necessary  to  repress, — that  I  was. coming  it 
rather  strong  on  the  butterflies. 

"  No,"  I  replied  ;  "there  is  meaning  in  each  of  those  images  — 
the  butterfly  as  well  as  the  others.  The  stone  is  ancient  error.  The 
grass  is  human  nature  borne  down  and  bleached  of  all  its  color  by  it. 
The  shapes  which  are  found  beneath  are  the  crafty  beings  that  thrive 
in  darkness,  and  the  weaker  organisms  kept  helpless  by  it.  He  who 
turns  the  stone  over  is  whosoever  puts  the  staff  of  truth  to  the  old 
lying  incubus,  no  matter  whether  he  do  it  with  a  serious  face  or  a 
laughing  one.  The  next  year  stands  for  the  coming  time.  Then 
shall  the  nature  which  had  lain  blanched  and  broken  rise  in  its  full 
stature  and  native  hues  in  the  sunshine.  Then  shall  God's  min- 
strels build  their  nests  in  the  hearts  of  a  new-born  humanity.  Then 
shall  beauty  —  Divinity  taking  outlines  and  color  —  light  upon  the 
souls  of  men  as  the  butterfly,  image  of  the  beatified  spirit  rising  from 
the  dust,  soars  from  the  shell  that  held  a  poor  grub,  which  would 
never  have  found  wings  had  not  the  stone  been  lifted. 


I  HAVE  lived  by  the  sea-shore  and  by  the  mountains.  No,  I  am 
not  going  to  say  which  is  best.  The  one  where  your  place  is  is  the 
best  for  you.  But  this  difference  there  is :  you  can  domesticate 
mountains,  but  the  sea  is  ferce  natures.  You  may  have  a  hut,  or 
know  the  owner  of  one,  on  the  mountain-side  ;  you  see  a  light  half 
way  up  its  ascent  in  the  evening,  and  you  know  there  is  a  home, 
and  you  might  share  it.  You  have  noted  certain  trees,  perhaps  ; 
you  know  the  particular  zone  where  the  hemlocks  look  so  black  in 
October,  when  the  maples  and  beeches  have  faded.  All  its  reliefs 
and  intaglios  have  electro  typed  themselves  in  the  medallions  that 
hang  round  the  walls  of  your  memory's  chamber.  The  sea  remem- 
bers nothing.  It  is  feline.  It  licks  your  feet ;  its  huge  flanks  purr 
very  pleasantly  for  you ;  but  it  will  crack  your  bones  and  eat  you, 
for  all  that,  and  wipe  the  crimsoned  foam  from  its  jaws  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  The  mountains  give  their  lost  children  berries  and 
water  ;  the  sea  mocks  their  thirst,  and  lets  them  die.  The  moun- 
tains have  a  grand,  stupid,  lovable  tranquillity  ;  the  sea  has  a  fasci- 
nating, treacherous  intelligence.  The  mountains  lie  about  like  huge 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES.  321 

ruminahts,  their  broad  backs  awful  to  look  upon,  but  safe  to  handle. 
The  sea  smooths  its  silver  scales  until  you  cannot  see  their  joints ; 
but  their  shining  is  that  of  a  snake's  belly,  after  all.  In  deeper  sug- 
gestiveness  I  find  ds  great  a  difference.  The  mountains  dwarf  man- 
kind, and  foreshorten  the  procession  of  its  long  generations.  The 
sea  drowns  out  humanity  and  time  ;  it  has  no  sympathy  with  either, 
for  it  belongs  to  eternity,  and  of  that  it  sings  its  monotonous  song 
forever  and  ever. 

THE    CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS. 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 
,    Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wre9ked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed  ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last  found  home,  and  knew  the  old 
no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn  ! 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice 

that  sings,  — 
21 


322  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll  ! 

Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past  ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea  ! 


MY  AUNT. 

MY  aunt !  my  dear  unmarried  aunt ! 

Long  years  have  o'er  her  flown  ; 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone  ; 
I  know  it  hurts  her,  though  she  looks 

As  cheerful  as  she  can  ; 
Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 

For  life  is  but  a  span. 

My  aunt !  my  poor  deluded  aunt ! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray  ; 
Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 

In  such  a  spring-like  way  ? 
H<3w  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down, 

And  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When,  through  a  double  convex  lens, 

She  just  makes  out  to  spell  ? 

Her  father  —  grandpapa,  forgive 

This  erring  lip  its  smiles  — 
Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 

Within  a  hundred  miles  ; 
He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school ; 

'Twas  in  her  thirteenth  June  ; 
And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required, 

"  Two  towels  and  a  spoon." 

They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board, 
To  make  her  straight  and  tall ; 

They  laced  her  up,  they  starved  her  down, 
To  make  her  light  and  small ; 


OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES.  323 

They  pinched  her  feet,  they  singed  her  hair, 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins  ;  — 
O,  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done, 

My  grandsire  brought  her  back 
(By  daylight  lest  some  rabid  youth 

Might  follow  on  the  track). 
"  Ah  !  "  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
"  What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  man  !  " 

Alas  !  nor  chariot,  nor  barouche, 

Nor  bandit  cavalcade, 
Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 

His  all-accomplished  maid. 
For  her  how  happy  had  it  been  ! 

And  Heaven  had  spared  to  me 
To  see  one  sad,  ungathered  rose 

On  my  ancestral  tree. 


THE   LAST   LEAF. 

I  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 
Sad  and  wan, 


324       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 
"  They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  pressed 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said,  — 
Poor  old  lady  she  is  dead 

Long  ago,  — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff; 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here  ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches, 'and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 


OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES.  325 

AFTER   A   LECTURE   ON    KEATS. 
"  Purpureos  sfargatn  flores." 

THE  wreath  that  star-crowned  Shelley  gave 

Is  lying  on  thy  Roman  grave, 

Yet  on  its  turf  young  April  sets 

Her  store  of  slender  violets  ; 

Though  all  the  gods  their  garlands  shower, 

I  too  may  bring  one  purple  flower. 

—  Alas  !  what  blossom  shall  I  bring 
That  opens  in  my  northern  spring  ? 
The  garden  beds  have  all  run  wild, 
So  trim  when  I  was  yet  a  child  ; 
Flat  plantains  and  unseemly  stalks 
Have  crept  across  the  gravel  walks  ; 
The  vines  are  dead,  long,  long  ago, 
The  almond  buds  no  longer  blow. 
No  more  upon  its  mound  I  see 
The  azure,  plume-bound  fleur-de-lis  ; 
Where  once  the  tulips  used  to  show, 
In  straggling  tufts  the  pansies  grow ; 

The  grass  has  quenched  my  white- rayed  gem, 
The  flowering  "  Star  of  Bethlehem," 
Though  its  long  blade  of  glossy  green 
And  pallid  stripe  may  still  be  seen. 
Nature,  who  treads  her  nobles  down, 
And  gives  their  birthright  to  the  clown, 
Has  sown  her  base-born  weedy  things 
Above  the  garden's  queens  and  kings. 

—  Yet  one  sweet  flower  of  ancient  race 
Springs  in  the  old  familiar  place. 

When  snows  were  melting  down  the  vale, 

And  Earth  unlaced  her  icy  mail, 

And  March  his  stormy  trumpet  blew, . 

And  tender  green  came  peeping  through, 

I  loved  the  earliest  one  to  seek 

That  broke  the  soil  with  emerald  beak, 

And  watch  the  trembling  bells  so  blue 

Spread  on  the  column  as  it  grew. 

Meek  child  of  earth  !  thou  wilt  not  shame 

The  sweet,  dead  poet's  holy  name ; 


326  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

The  God  of  Music  gave  thee  birth, 
Called  from  the  crimson-spotted  earth, 
Where,  sobbing  his  young  life  away, 
His  own  fair  Hyacinthus  lay. 
—  The  hyacinth  my  garden  gave 
Shall  lie  upon  that  Roman  grave. 


UNION   AND   LIBERTY. 

FLAG  of  the  heroes  who  left  us  their  glory, 

Borne  through  their  battle-fields'  thunder  and  flame, 
Blazoned  in  song  and  illumined  in  story, 
Wave-  o'er  us  all  who  inherit  their  fame  ! 

Up  with  our  banner  bright, 

Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to  shore, 

While  through  the  sounding  sky 

Loud  rings  the  nation's  cry,  — 
Union  and  Liberty  !  One  evermore  ! 

Light  of  our  firmament,  guide  of  our  nation, 

Pride  of  our  children,  and  honored  afar, 
Let  the  wide  beams  of  thy  full  constellation 

Scatter  each  cloud  that  would  darken  a  star. 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Empire  unsceptred  !  what  foe  can  assail  thee, 

Bearing  the  standard  of  Liberty's  van  ? 
Think  not  the  God  of  thy  fathers  shall  fail  thee, 

Striving  with  men  for  the  birthright  of  man  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Yet  if  by  madness  and  treachery  blighted, 

Dawns  the  dark  hour  when  the  sword  thou  must  draw, 
Then  with  the  arms  of  thy  millions  united, 

Smite  the  bold  traitors  to  Freedom  and  Law  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Lord  of  the  universe  !  shield  us  and  guide  us, 
Trusting  thee  always,  through  shadow  and  sun  ! 

Thou  hast  united  us  —  who  shall  divide  us  ? 
Keep  us,  O,  keep  us,  the  Many  in  One ! 


OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES.  327 

Up  with  our  banner  bright, 

Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to  shore, 

While  through  the  sounding  sky 

Loud  rings  the  nation's  cry  — 
Union  and  Liberty  !  One  evermore  ! 


OLD   IRONSIDES. 

[Written  when  it  was  proposed  to  break  up  the  old  frigate  Constitution.] 

AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky  ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ; 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  ;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 

O,  bettej  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave  ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep,. 

And  there  should  be  her  grave  ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 


328  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


THE   PHILOSOPHER   TO   HIS    LOVE. 

DEAREST,  a  look  is  but  a  ray 
Reflected  in  a  certain  way  ; 
A  word,  whatever  tone  it  wear, 
Is  but  a  trembling  wave  of  air  ; 
A  touch,  obedience  to  a  clause 
In  Nature's  pure  material  laws. 

The  very  flowers  that  bend  and  meet, 
In  sweetening  others,  grow  more  sweet ; 
The  clouds  by  day,  the  stars  by  night, 
Inweave  their  floating  locks  of  light ; 
The  rainbow,  Heaven's  own  forehead's  braid, 
Is  but  the  embrace  of  sun  and  shade. 

How  few  that  love  us  have  we  found  ! 
How  wide  the  world  that  girds  them  round ! 
Like  mountain  streams  we  meet  and  part, 
Each  living  in  the  other's  heart, 
Our  course  unknown,  our  hope  to  be 
Yet  mingled  in  the  distant  sea. 

But  Ocean  coils  and  heaves  in  vain, 
Bound  in  the  subtile  moonbeam's  chain  ; 
And  love  and  hope  do  but  obey 
Some  cold,  capricious  planet's  ray, 
Which  lights  and  leads  the  tide  it  charms 
To  Death's  dark  caves  and  icy  arms. 

Alas  !  one  narrow  line  is  drawn, 
That  links  our  sunset  with  our  dawn  ; 
In  mist  and  shade  life's  morning  rose, 
A^d  clouds  are  round  it  at  its  close ; 
But  ah  !  no  twilight  beam  ascends 
To  whisper  where  that  evening  ends. 

O,  in  the  hour  when  I  shall  feel 
Those  shadows  round  my  senses  steal, 
When  gentle  eyes  are  weeping  o'er 
The  clay  that  feels  their  tears  no  more, 
Then  let  thy  spirit  with  me  be, 
Or  some  sweet  angel,  likest  thee  ! 


OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES.  329 


EVENING.  —  BY   A  TAILOR. 

DAY  hath  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around 

His  burning  bosom  buttoned  it  with  stars. 

Here  will  I  lay  me  on  the  velvet  grass, 

That  is  like  padding  to  earth's  meagre  ribs, 

And  hold  communion  with  the  things  about  me. 

Ah  me  !  how  lovely  is  the  golden  braid 

That  binds  the  skirt  of  night's  descending  robe  ! 

The  thin  leaves,  quivering  on  their  silken  threads, 

Do  make  a  music  like  to  rustling  satin, 

As  the  light  breezes  smooth  their  downy  nap. 

Ha  !  wh'at  is  this  that  rises  to  my  touch, 

So  like  a  cushion  ?     Can  it  be  a  cabbage  ? 

It  is,  it  is  that  deeply  injured  flower, 

Which  boys  do  flout  us  with  ;  —  but  yet  I  love  thee, 

Thou  giant  rose,  wrapped  in  a  green  surtout. 

Doubtless  in  Eden  thou  didst  blush  as  bright 

As  these,  thy  puny  brethren  ;  and  thy  breath 

Sweetened  the  fragrance  of  her  spicy  air  ; 

But  now  thou  seemest  like  a  bankrupt  beau, 

Stripped  of  his  gaudy  hues  and  essences, 

And  growing  portly  in  his  sober  garments. 

Is  that  a  swan  that  rides  upon  the  water  ? 

O,  no  ;  it  is  that  other  gentle  bird, 

Which  is  the  patron  of  our  noble  calling. 

I  well  remember,  in  my  early  years, 

When  these  young  hands  first  closed  upon  a  goose ; 

I  have  a  scar  upon  my  thimble  finger 

Which  chronicles  the  hour  of  young  ambition. 

My  father  was  a  tailor,  and  his  father, 

And  my  sire's  grandsire,  all  of  them  were  tailors  ; 

They  had  an  ancient  goose,  —  it  was  an  heir-loom 

From  some  remoter  tailor  of  our  race. 

It  happened  I  did  see  it  on  a  time 

When  none  was  near,  and  I  did  deal  with  it, 

And  it  did  burn  me  —  O,  most  fearfully  ! 

It  is  a  joy  to  straighten  out  one's  limbs, 
And  leap  elastic  from  the  level  counter, 


HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Leaving  the  petty  grievances  of  earth, 
The  breaking  thread,  the  dm  of  clashing  shears, 
And  all  the  needles  that  do  wound  the  spirit, 
For  such  a  pensive  hour  of  soothing  silence. 
Kind  Nature,  shuffling  in  her  loose  undress, 
Lays  bare  her  shady  bosom  ;  I  can  feel 
With  all  around  me  ;  I  can  hail  the  flowers 
That  sprig  earth's  mantle,  —  and  yon  quiet  bird, 
That  rides  the  stream,  is  to  me  as  a  brother. 
The  vulgar  know  not  all  the  hidden  pockets 
Where  Nature  stows  away  her  loveliness.  — 
But  this  unnatural  posture  of  the  legs 
Cramps  my  extended  calves,  and  I  must  go 
Where  I  can  coil  them  in  their  wonted  fashion. 


ROBERT  CHARLES    WINTHROP. 

Robert  Charles  Winthrop,  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  first  governor  of  Massachusetts,  was 
born  in  Boston,  May  12,  1809.  He  was  educated  at  the  Latin  School  and  at  Harvard 
College,  receiving  his  degree  in  1828.  He  studied  law  in  the  office  of  Daniel  Webster  ;  but 
soon  after  his  admission  to  the  bar,  he  commenced  a  public  career.  He  was  a  member  of 
the  state  legislature  for  six  years,  during  three  of  which  he  was  speaker.  He  was  elected 
to  Congress  in  1840,  and  remained  in  that  service,  excepting  a  short  interval,  for  ten  years. 
He  was  chosen  speaker  in  1847,  and  in  1849  he  was  the  Whig  candidate  for  re-election  to  the 
same  position.  The  Free-soil  members  held  the  balance  of  power  between  the  Whigs  and 
Democrats.  Mr.  Winthrop  refused  to  give  any  pledges  as  to  the  manner  in  which  he  would 
constitute  the  committees  of  the  house  if  he  should  be  elected.  The  Anti-slavery  men 
thereupon  refused  to  support  him,  and  after  sixty-three  ballots  the  Democratic  candidate, 
Mr.  Howell  Cobb,  of  Georgia,  was  elected.  In  1850  he  was  appointed  by  the  governor 
United  States  senator,  as  successor  to  Webster,  who  had  been  made  secretary  of  state.  In 
1851  he  was  the  candidate  of  the  Whigs  for  the  United  States  senatorship,  but  was  defeated 
by  Charles  Sumner,  through  a  coalition  of  the  Democratic  and  Free-soil  parties.  He  was  a 
candidate  for  governor  the  following  autumn,  and  received  a  large  plurality  of  votes  ;  but  as 
a  majority  of  all  the  votes  was  then  required,  there  was  no  choice  by  the  people,  and  the 
election  devolved  upon  the  state  legislature.  The  result  was,  that  Mr.  Boutwell,  who  was 
the  Democratic  candidate,  was  elected.  The  rule  requiring  a  majority  of  all  the  votes  was  in 
these  three  successive  instances  a  disastrous  one  for  the  prospects  of  Mr.  Winthrop  and  his 
party.  Since  that  time  he  has  taken  no  active  part  in  political  affairs,  but  has  devoted  his 
leisure  mainly  to  literary  pursuits.  He  is  president  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society, 
which  is  engaged  in  the  useful  work  of  printing  books  and  manuscripts  relating  to  our  annals. 
He  is  one  of  the  trustees,  under  the  will  of  George  Peabody,  of  the  fund  for  promoting 
popular  education  in  the  Southern  States.  He  has  delivered  a  number  of  orations  and  dis- 
courses upon  historical,  patriotic,  and  religious  subjects.  He  has  published  the  Life  and 
Letters  of  John  Winthrop,  in  two  volumes  ;  also  a  Memoir  of  Nathan  Appleton,  and  dis- 
courses commemorative  of  Prescott,  Quincy,  Everett,  Peabody,  and  others. 

A  volume  of  his  Addresses  and  Speeches  was  published  in  1852,  and  another  in  1867. 


\ 


ROBERT    CHARLES   WINTHROP.  331 

Mr.  Wintlirop  is  a  man  of  decided  opinions,  and  of  high  character.  All  his  public  per- 
formances are  marked  by  an  independence  of  tone,  thoroughness  of  conviction,  and  a  clear 
and  forcible  style.  It  should  be  remembered  that  it  is  not  the  style  of  an  essayist,  but  rather 
that  of  an  orator,  to  whom  brevity  is  not  so  desirable  as  amplitude  of  expression.  He  is  an 
admiring  student  of  our  literature,  and  uses  poetical  illustrations  with  admirable  taste 
and  effect. 

[From  an  Address  before  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Associations  of  Boston  and 
Richmond.  ] 

ANTIOCH. 

THE  ancient  metropolis  of  Syria  has  secured  for  itself  a  manifold 
celebrity  on  the  pages  of  history.  It  has  been  celebrated  as  the 
splendid  residence  of  the  Syrian  kings,  and  afterwards  as  the  lux- 
urious capital  of  the  Asiatic  provinces  of  the  Roman  empire.  It 
has  been  celebrated  for  its  men  of  letters,  and  its  cultivation  of 
learning.  It  has  been  celebrated  for  the  magnificence  of  the  edifices 
within  its  walls,*  and  for  the  romantic  beauty  of  its  suburban  groves 
and  fountains.  The  circling  sun  shone  nowhere  upon  more  majestic 
productions  of  human  art,  than  when  it  gilded,  with  its  rising  or  its 
setting  beams,  the  sumptuous  symbols  of  its  own  deluded  wor- 
shippers, in  the  gorgeous  temple  of  Daphne  and  the  gigantic  statue 
of  Apollo,  which  were  the  pride  and  boast  of  that  far-famed  capital  ; 
while  it  was  from  one  of  the  humble  hermitages  which  were  em- 
boson\ed  in  its  exquisite  environs,  that  the  sainted  Chrysostom 
poured  forth  some  of  those  poetical  and  passionate  raptures  on  the 
beauties  and  sublimities  of  nature,  which  would  alone  have  won  for 
him  the  title  of  "  the  golden-mouthed."  At  one  time,  we  are  told,  it 
ranked  thirds  the  list  of  the  great  cities  of  the  world,  —  next  only 
after  Rome  and  Alexandria,  and  hardly  inferior  to  the  latter  of  the 
two,  at  least,  in  size  and  splendor.  It  acquired  a  severer  and  sadder 
renown  in  more  recent,  though  still  remote  history,  as  having  been 
doomed  to  undergo  vicissitudes  and  catastrophes  of  the  most  dis- 
astrous and  deplorable  character,  —  now  sacked  and  pillaged  by  the 
Persians,  now  captured  by  the  Saracens,  and  now  besieged  by  the 
Crusaders;  a  prey,  at  one  moment,  to  the  ravages  of  fire,  —  at 
another,  to  the  devastations  of  an  earthquake,  which  is  said  to  have 
destroyed  no  less  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  human  lives 
in  a  single  hour.  Its  name  has  thus  become  associated  with  so 
many  historical  lights  and  shadows,  —  with  so  much  of  alternate 
grandeur  and.  gloom,  —  that  there  is,  perhaps,  but  little  likelihood 
of  its  ever  being  wholly  lost  sight  of  by  any  student  of  antiquity. 
Yet  it  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that  one  little  fact,  for  which  the  Bible 
is  the  sole  and  all-sufficient  authority,  will  fix  that  name  in  the 


332     -  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

memory,  and  rivet  it  in  the  affectionate  regard,  of  mankind,  when  all 
else  associated  with  it  is  forgotten.  Yes,  when  its  palaces  and  its 
temples,  its  fountains  and  its  groves,  its  works  of  art  and  its  men  of 
learning,  when  Persian,  and  Saracen,  and  Crusader,  who  successive- 
ly spoiled  it,  and  the  flames  and  the  earthquake  which  devoured  and 
desolated  it,  shall  have  utterly  faded  from  all  human  recollection  or 
record,  the  little  fact  —  the  great  fact,  let  me  rather  say  —  will  still 
be  remembered,  and  remembered  with  an  interest  and  a  vividness 
which  no  time  can  ever  efface  or  diminish,  —  that  "the  disciples 
were  called  Christians  first  in  Antioch  ; "  that  there  the  name  of 
Christ  —  given  at  the  outset,  perhaps,  as  a  nickname  and  a  by- 
word, but  gladly  and  fearlessly  accepted  and  adopted,  in  the  face  of 
mockery,  in  the  face  of  martyrdom,  by  delicate  youth  and  maiden 
tenderness,  as  well  as  by  mature  or  veteran  manhood  —  first  became 
the  distinctive  designation  of  the  faithful  followers  of'the  Messiah. 


THE   POWER   OF   EARLY   ASSOCIATIONS. 

FOR  one,  my  friends,  I  can  never  think  of  the  bitterness  and 
rancor  which  are  so  often  allowed  to  enter  into  religious  differences 
and  religious  controversies,  without  remembering  how  much  our 
religious  opinions,  our  religious  creeds,  our  religious  connections, 
have  been  determined  —  pre-detennined,  providentially  determined 
—  for  us  all,  by  the  mere  influence  of  early  and  seemingly  accidental 
associations.  The  place  of  our  birth,  the  circumstances  of  our  con- 
dition, the  surroundings  of  our  childhood,  the  fascination  of  some 
beloved  and  faithful  pastor,  the  paternal  precept  and  example,  the 
mother's  knee,  the  family  pew,  have,  after  all,  done  more  to  decide 
for  each  one  of  us  the  peculiarities  of  our  religious  faith  and  of  our 
religious  forms,  than  all  the  catechisms  of  assemblies,  the  decrees 
of  councils,  or  the  canons  of  convocations.  We  delight  to  worship 
God  where  our  fathers  and  mothers  worshipped  him,  to  kneel  at  the 
same  altar  at  which  they  knelt,  to  unite  in  the  same  prayers,  or,  it 
may  be,  to  utter  the  same  responses,  in  which  their  voices  were  once 
heard,  and  which  they  first  taught  us  to  lisp  or  to  listen  to  as 
children.  The  memories  of  fathers  and  mothers,  and  brothers  and 
sisters,  with  whom  we  have  "  taken  sweet  counsel  together,  and 
walked  to  the  house  of  God  in  company,"  cluster  sweetly  around  us 
as  we  sit  in  the  old  seats  and  sing  the  old  psalms  and  hymns.  We 
almost  shrink  from  trying  to  get  to  heaven  by  any  other  road  than 
that  which  they  travelled,  lest  we  should  miss  them  at  our  journey's 


ROBERT    CHARLES    WINTHROP.  333 

end.  And  is  he  not  a  very  unwise  person,  who,  without  some  deep 
and  overpowering  conviction,  would  rudely  break  the  spell  and 
dissolve  the  charm  of  such  associations,  either  for  himself  or  others? 
How  miserable  is  it,  then,  to  allow  the  differences  which  have  an 
origin  so  natural,  so  worthy,  so  hallowed,  so  providential,  to  become 
the  subject  of  mutual  suspicions,  reproaches,  and  denunciations  ! 

It  is  well  for  us  all  to  remember,  that,  in  the  language  of  my  Lord 
Bacon,  "  they  be  two  things  —  unity  and  uniformity."  And  how 
admirably  does  he  suggest  in  his  essay  on  Unity  in  Religion,  "A 
man  that  is  of  judgment  and  understanding  shall  sometimes  hear 
ignorant  men  differ,  and  know  well  within  himself,  that  those  which 
so  differ  mean  one  thing,  and  yet  they  themselves  would  never 
agree  ;  and  if  it  come  so  to  pass  in  that  distance  of  judgment  which 
is  between  man  and  man,  shall  we  not  think  that  God  above,  that 
knows  the  heart,  doth  not  discern  that  frail  men,  in  some  of  their 
contradictions,  intend  the  same  thing,  and  accepteth  of  both  ?  "  .  . 

Who  does  not  rejoice,  as  Sunday  after  Sunday  comes  round,  to 
see  the  multitudes  that  keep  holy  day  thronging  our  streets  and 
sidewalks,  and  exchanging  the  smiles  of  recognition,  or  the  greetings 
of  friendship,  or  the  formalities  of  ceremony,  as  they  make  way  for 
each  other  in  passing  along  to  their  various  places  of  religious  wor- 
ship ?  To  human  eyes,  indeed,  they  seem  to  be  moving  in  widely 
different  directions,  and  so  it  may  prove  to  have  been  with  some  of 
them.  But  so  have  I  seen  on  a  summer  sea,  in  yonder  bay,  alike  in 
calm  and  in  storm,  vessels  of  every  sort,  and  beneath  every  sign,  sail- 
ing in  widely  different  and  diverging  courses,  crossing  and  recross- 
ing  each  other's  tracks,  and  seemingly  propelled  by  the  most  op- 
posite and  contrarious  forces.  Yet  the  same  wind  of  heaven,  blowing 
where  it  listeth,  was  the  common  source  of  their  motive  power, 
giving  impulse  and  direction  to  the  progress  of  them  all  alike,  and 
bringing  them  all  to  be  moored  at  last  in  one  common  haven  of  rest ! 

[From  a  speech  in  Congress  in  1844.] 
PEACE   BETWEEN   ENGLAND   AND   AMERICA. 

IF  it  be  a  fit  subject  for  reproach  to  entertain  the  most  anxious  and 
ardent  desire  for  the  peace  of  this  country,  its  peace  with  England, 
its  peace  with  all  the  world,  I  submit  myself  willingly  to  the  fullest 
measure  of  that  reproach.  War  between  the  United  States  and 
Great  Britain  for  Oregon  !  Sir,  there  is  something  in  this  idea  too 
monstrous  to  be  entertained  for  a  moment.  The  two  greatest 


334       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

nations  on  the  globe,  with  more  territorial  possessions  than  they 
know  what  to  do  with  already,  and  bound  together  by  so  many  ties 
of  kindred,  and  language,  and  commercial  interest,  going  to  war  for 
a  piece  of  barren  earth  !  Why,  it  would  put  back  the  cause  of 
civilization  a  whole  century,  and  would  be  enough  not  merely  to  call 
down  the  rebuke. of  men,  but  the  curse  of  God.  I  do  not  yield  to 
the  honorable  gentleman  in  a  just  concern  for  the  national  honor. 
I  am  ready  to  maintain  that  honor,  whenever  it  is  really  at  stake, 
against  Great  Britain,  as  readily  as  against  any  other  nation. 
Indeed,  if  war  is  to  come  upon  us,  I  am  quite  willing  that  it  should 
be  war  with  a  first-rate  power  —  with  a  foeman  worthy  of  our  steel. 

"O,  the  blood  more  stirs 
To  rouse  a  lion  than  to  start  a  hare." 

If  the  young  Queen  of  England  were  the  veritable  Victoria  whom 
the  ancient  poets  have  sometimes  described  as  descending  from  the 
right  hand  of  Jupiter  to  crown  the  banner  of  predestined  Triumph, 
I  would  still  not  shrink  from  the  attempt  to  vindicate  the  rights  of 
my  country  on  every  proper  occasion.  To  her  forces,  however,  as 
well  as  to  ours,  may  come  the  "  cita  mors"  as  well  as  the  "  victoria 
Iczfa."  We  have  nothing  to  fear  from  a  protracted  war  with  any 
nation,  though  our  want  of  preparation  might  give  us  the  worst  of  it 
in  the  first  encounter.  We  are  all,  and  always,  ready  for  war,  when 
there  is  no  other  alternative  for  maintaining  our  country's  honor. 
We  are  all,  and  always,  ready  for  any  war  into  which  a  Christian 
man,  in  a  civilized  land,  and  in  this  age  of  the  world,  can  have  the 
face  to  enter.  But  I  thank  God  that  there  are  very  few  such  cases. 
War  and  honor  are  fast  getting  to  have  less  and  less  to  do  with  each 
other.  The  highest  honor  of  any  country  is  to  preserve  peace,  even 
under  provocations  which  might  justify  war.  The  deepest  disgrace 
to  any  country  is  to  plunge  into  war  under  circumstances  which 
leave  the  honorable  alternative  of  peace.  I  heartily  hope  and  trust, 
sir,  that  in  deference  to  the  sense  of  the  civilized  world,  in  deference 
to  that  spirit  of  Christianity  which  is  now  spreading  its  benign  and 
healing  influences  over  both  hemispheres  with  such  signal  rapidity, 
we  shall  explore  the  whole  field  of  diplomacy,  and  exhaust  every  art 
of  negotiation,  before  we  give  loose  to  that  passion  for  conflict  which 
the  honorable  gentleman  from  Pennsylvania  seems  to  regard  as  so 
grand  and  glorious  an  element  of  the  American  character. 


MARGARET   FULLER. 


MARGARET   FULLER. 

Sarah  Margaret  Fuller,  by  marriage  Marchioness  Ossoli,  was  born  in  Cambridge,  May 
Y  23,  1810.  She  was  educated  by  her  father,  who  injudiciously  gave  her  tasks  that  developed 
her  mental  faculties  at  the  expense  of  a  sound  bodily  organization.  She  was  a  prodigy  of 
learning,  and  early  devoured  languages  and  literatures.  She  spent  a  few  years  in  teaching, 
and  in  1840  was  principal  editor  of  The  Dial,  a  periodical  devoted  to  transcendental  philoso- 
phy. In  1844  she  became  connected  with  the  New  York  Tribune,  and  wrote  for  it  reviews 
and  miscellaneous  articles,  which  in  1846  were  collected  and  published  under  the  title  of 
Papers  on  Art  and  Literature.  She  went  to  Europe  in  1846,  and  after  extensive  travels 
reached  Rome  in  the  spring  of  1847.  In  December  of  that  year  she  was  married  to  tha 
Marquis  Ossoli.  She  remained  in  Rome  during  the  revolution  of  1848,  and  through  the 
siege  by  the  French  the  year  after.  In  May,  1850,  she  embarked  with  her  husband  and 
infant  son  at  Leghorn,  in  the  ship  Elizabeth,  for  New  York,  and  when  near  port  perished 
with  them  in  the  wreck  of  the  vessel  on  Fire  Island. 

Three  of  her  intimate  friends,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  William  Henry  Channing,  and  James 
Freeman  Clarke,  wrote  an  account  of  her  life,  each  contributing  a  separate  view.  From  this 
work,  as  well  as  from  the  concurrent  testimony  of  other  intellectual  and  cultivated  people,  it  is 
evident  that  Margaret  Fuller  (as  we  prefer  to  call  her)  was  a  woman  of  rare  genius.  She 
delighted  in  abstruse  philosophical  themes,  and  in  criticism  of  literature  and  art.  Clubs  of  her 
admirers  met  statedly  to  hear  her  discourse  upon  her  favorite  topics.  At  the  same  time  the 
habit  of  monologue  rendered  her  manners  painfully  disagreeable  to  all  but  this  esoteric 
circle,  and  gave  to  her  opinions  an  oracular  tone,  that  seemed  to  admit  of  neither  denial  nor 
question.  In  her  published  works  there  are  passages  of  great  power  and  beauty.  Her 
descriptions  of  scenery  —  that  of  Niagara,  for  instance  —  are  given  with  a  few  bold  strokes, 
that  suggest  much  more  than  at  first  meets  the  eye.'  She  paints,  in  fact,  our  inward  emotion 
in  presence  of  the  scene,  and  so  gives  us  the  ideal  of  nature.  Her  critical  articles  often  show 
insight,  and  the  power  of  clear  statement ;  but  either  she  was  warped  by  personal  dislikes  or 
she  took  pleasure  in  demolishing  popular  idols.  In  her  view  there  were  but  half  a  dozen 
people  with  brains  in  America.  In  her  way  of  writing,  the  editorial  we  had  a  royal  sound, 
that  would  liave  been  offensive  if  it  had  not  been  so  often  absurd.  German  philosophy  had 
but  recently  come  in  fashion  ;  its  phrases  infected  all  its  votaries,  and  furnished  their  plati- 
tudes with  a  wondrous  garb  for  disguise.  It  was  some  time  before  it  was  discovered  that 
philosophic  diction  did  not  always  clothe  philosophic  thought. 

Perhaps  Margaret  Fuller  had  passed  through  her  destructive  stage,  and  was  ready  to 
build.  Perhaps,  if  she  had  lived,  she  would  have  justified  the  opinions  of  her  admirers  by 
the  creation  of  some  artistic  work.  If  this  were  so,  the  calamity  of  the  shipwreck  is  the 
more  to  be  lamented.  As  in  the  case  of  great  orators,  actors,  and  singers,  who,  after  charm- 
ing a  generation,  die  and  leave  only  a  tradition  of  their  powers,  this  extraordinary  woman 
will  be  a  mere  name  in  our  literary  history. 

Something  of  her  influence  survives.  The  advocates  for  the  elevation  of  woman  hold  her 
in  high  regard  as  a  pioneer  in  their  cause.  In  this,  as  in  everything  else 'in  which  she  took 
part,  she  put  her  own  intense  personality  forward,  and  did  much  to  win  for  her  sex  the  right 
of  discussion  and  the  privilege  of  being  heard. 

Besides  the  Papers  on  Art  and  Literature,  before  mentioned,  she  wrote  Woman  in  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  also  letters  from  Europe,  which  were  published  under  the  title  of 
At  Home  and  Abroad  (1856).  This  last  work  included  Summer  on  the  Lakes,  which  was 
originally  published  in  1843,  also  notices  of  her  life  and  character,  by  Bayard  Taylor  and 
Horace  Oreeley,  and  commemorative  poems,  by  Walter  Savage  Landor  and  others.  She 
translated  Eckermann's  Conversations  with  Goethe  (1839),  a»d  The  Letters  of  Gunderode 
and  Bettine(i84i). 


336  '    HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

SCOTT   AND   BURNS. 

ON  the  coach  with  us  was  a  gentleman  coming  from  London  to 
make  his  yearly  visit  to  the  neighborhood  of  Burns,  in  which  he  was 
born.  "  I  can  now,"  said  he,  "go  but  once  a  year;  when  a  boy,  I 
never  let  a  week  pass  without  visiting  the  house  of  Burns."  He 
afterwards  observed,  as  every  step  woke  us  to  fresh  recollections  of 
Walter  Scott,  that  Scott,  with  all  his  vast  range  of  talent,  knowl- 
edge, and  activity,  was  a  poet  of  the  past  only,  and  in  his  inmost 
heart  wedded  to  the  habits  of  a  feudal  aristocracy,  while  Burns  is 
the  poet  of  the  present  and  the  future,  the  man  of  the  people,  and 
throughout  a  genuine  man.  This  is  true  enough  ;  but  for  my  part  I 
cannot  endure  a  comparison  which  by  a  breath  of  coolness  depreci- 
ates either.  Both  were  wanted  ;  each  acted  the  important  part 
assigned  to  him  by  destiny  with  a  wonderful  thoroughness  and  com- 
pleteness. Scott  breathed  the  breath  just  fleeting  from  the  forms  of 
ancient  Scottish  heroism  and  poesy  into  new  —  he  made  for  us  the 
bridge  by  which  we  have  gone  into  the  old  Ossianic  hall,  and  caught 
the  meaning  just  as  it  was  about  to  pass  from  us  forever.  Burns  is 
full  of  the  noble,  genuine  democracy  which  seeks  not  to  destroy 
royalty,  but  to  make  all  men  kings,  as  he  himself  was,  in  nature  and 
in  action.  They  belong  to  the  same  world  ;  they  are  pillars  of  the 
same  church,  though  they  uphold  its  starry  roof  from  opposite  sides. 
Burns  was  much  the  rarer  man,  precisely  because  he  had  most  of 
common  nature  on  a  grand  scale  :  his  humor,  his  passion,  his  sweet- 
ness, are  all  his  own  ;  they  need  no  picturesque  or  romantic  acces- 
sories to  give  them  due  relief;  looked  at  by  all  lights  they  are  the 
same.  Since  Adam,  there  has  been  none  that  approached  nearer 
fitness  to  stand  up  before  God  and  angels  in  the  naked  majesty  of 
manhood  than  Robert  Burns. 


•    .  CARLYLE. 

I  APPROACHED  him  with  more  reverence  after  a  little  experience 
of  England  and  Scotland  had  taught  me  to  appreciate  the  strength 
and  height  of  that  wall  of  shams  and  conventions  which  he  more 
than  any  man,  or  thousand  men,  —  indeed,  he  almost  alone,  —  has 
begun  to  throw  down.  Wherever  there  was  fresh  thought,  generous 
hope,  the  thought  of  Carlyle  has  begun  the  work.  He  has  torn  off 
the  veils  from  hideous  facts  ;  he  has  burnt  away  foolish  illusions  ;  he 
has  awakened  thousands  to  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  man  —  that  we 


MARGARET   FULLER.  337 

must  live,  and  not  merely  pretend  to  others  that  we  live.  He  has 
touched  the  rocks  and  they  have  given  forth  musical  answer  ;  little 
more  was  wanting  to  begin  to  construct  the  city. 

But  that  little  was  wanting,  and  the  work  of  construction  is  left  to 
those  that  come  after  him  ;  nay,  all  attempts  of  the  kind  he  is  the 
readiest  to  deride,  fearing  new  shams  worse  than  old,  unable  to  trust 
the  general  action  of  a  thought,  and  finding  no  heroic  man,  no  nat- 
ural king,  to  represent  it  and  challenge  his  confidence. 

Accustomed  to  the  infinite  wit  and  exuberant  richness  of  his 
writings,  his  talk  is  still  an  amazement  and  a  splendor  scarcely  to  be 
faced  with  steady  eyes.  He  does  not  converse  —  only  harangues. 
It  is  the  usual  misfortune  of  such  marked  men  (happily  not  one  in- 
variable or  inevitable)  that  they  cannot  allow  other  minds  room  to 
breathe  and  show  themselves  in  their  atmosphere,  and  thus  miss  the 
refreshment  and  instruction  which  the  greatest  never  cease  to  need 
from  the  experience  of  the  humblest.  Carlyle  allows  no  one  a 
chance,  but  bears  down  all  opposition  ;  not  only  by  his  wit  and  onset 
of  words,  resistless  in  their  sharpness  as  so  many  bayonets,  but  by 
actual  physical  superiority,  raising  his  voice  and  rushing  on  his 
opponent  with  a  torrent  of  sound.  This  is  not  in  the  least  from  un- 
willingness to  allow  freedom  to  others ;  on  the  contrary,  no  man 
would  more  enjoy  a  manly  resistance  to  his  thought ;  but  it  is  the 
impulse  of  a  mind  accustomed  to  follow  out  its  own  impulse  as  the 
hawk  its  prey,  and  which  knows  not  how  to  stop  in  the  chase. 
Carlyle,  indeed,  is  arrogant  and  overbearing,  but  in  his  arrogance 
there  is  no  littleness  or  self-love  :  it  is  the  heroic  arrogance  of  some 
old  Scandinavian  conqueror  —  it  is  his  nature  and  the  untamable 
impulse  that  has  given  him  power  to  crush  the  dragons.  You  do 
not  love  him,  perhaps,  nor  revere,  and  perhaps,  also,  he  would  only 
laugh  at  you  if  you  did ;  but  you  like  him  heartily,  and  like  to  see 
him  the  powerful  smith,  —  the  Siegfried,  —  melting  all  the  old  iron 
in  his  furnace  till  it  glows  to  a  sunset  red,  and  burns  you  if  you 
senselessly  go  too  near.  He  seemed  to  me  quite  isolated,  lonely  as 
the  desert ;  yet  never  was  man  more  fitted  to  prize  a  man,  could  he 
find  one  to  match  his  mood.  He  finds  such,  but  only  in  the  past. 
He  sings  rather  than  talks.  He  pours  upon  you  a  kind  of  satirical, 
heroical,  critical  poem,  with  regular  cadences,  and  generally  catch- 
ing up  near  the  beginning  some  singular  epithet,  which  serves  as  a 
refrain  when  his  song  is  full,  or  with  which,  as  with  a  knitting- 
needle,  he  catches  up  the  stitches  if  he  has  chanced  now  and  then  to 
let  fall  a  row.  For  the  higher  kinds  of  poetry  he  has  no  sense,  and 
22 


338       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

his  talk  on  that  subject  is  delightfully  and  gorgeously  absurd  ;  he 
sometimes  stops  a  minute  to  laugh  at  it  himself,  then  begins  anew 
with  fresh  vigor  ;  for  all  the  spirits  he  is  driving  before  him  seem  to 
him  as  Fata  Morganas,  ugly  masks,  in  fact,  if  he  can  but  make  them 
turn  about ;  but  he  laughs  that  they  seem  to  others  such  dainty  Ariels. 
He  puts  out  his  chin  sometimes  till  it  looks  like  the  beak  of  a  bird, 
and  his  eyes  flash  bright  instinctive  meanings,  like  Jove's  bird  ;  yet 
he  is  not  calm  and  grand  enough  for  the  eagle  :  he  is  more  like  the 
falcon,  and  yet  not  of  gentle  blood  enough  for  that  either.  He  is  not 
exactly  like  anything  but  himself,  and  therefore  you  cannot  see  him 
without  the  most  hearty  refreshment  and  good-will,  for  he  is  original, 
rich,  and  strong  enough  to  afford  a  thousand  faults  ;  one  expects 
some  wild  land  in  a  rich  kingdom.  His  talk,  like  his  books,  is  full 
of  pictures,  his  critical  strokes  masterly  ;  allow  for  his  point  of  view, 
and  his  survey  is  admirable.  He  is  a  large  subject ;  I  cannot  speak 
more  or  wiselier  of  him  now,  nor  needs  it ;  his  works  are  true,  to 
blame  and  praise  him  —  the  Siegfried  of  England,  great  and  power- 
ful, if  not  quite  invulnerable,  and  of  a  might  rather  to  destroy  evil 
than  legislate  for  good.  At  all  events,  he  seems  to  be  what  Destiny 
intended,  and  represents  fully  a  certain  side  ;  so  we  make  no  re- 
monstrance as  to  his  being  and  proceeding  for  himself,  though  we 
sometimes  must  for  us. 


THEODORE   PARKER. 

Theodore  Parker  was  born  in  Lexington,  Mass.,  August  24,  1810.  ,  He  received  only  a 
common  school  education  until  in  his  seventeenth  year  he  procured  the  necessary  books  and 
fitted  himself  to  enter  college.  He  worked  on  his  father's  farm  while  pursuing  his  studies, 
and  in  1830  entered  the  freshman  class  at  Harvard.  Though  he  remained  but  a  year,  it  is 
said  he  went  over  the  studies  of  three  years.  He  then  taught  school  until,  in  1834,  he 
entered  the  Cambridge  divinity  school.  During  this  period  and  through  his  whole  life  he 
devoted  his  time  to  learning,  in  almost  every  department,  especially  in  that  of  languages. 
He  was  familiar  with  Latin,  Greek,  Hebrew,  Syriac,  Arabic,  German,  French,  Spanish, 
Italian,  Russian,  Danish,  and  Swedish,  and  perhaps  with  many  more.  He  was  able  to  read 
fluently  in  over  twenty  languages  and  dialects.  Metaphysics,  history,  politics,  literature, 
and  whatever  was  nearest,  furnished  the  aliment  without  which  he  could  not  exist.  In  1837 
he  was  settled  as  pastor  of  a  Unitarian  church  in  West  Roxbury.  Before  long  his  views 
took  a  form  not  in  accordance  with  the  teachings  of  his  clerical  brethren.  This  change  was 
announced  in  a  sermon  preached  at  the  ordination  of  the  Rev.  C.  C.  Shackford,  in  South 
Boston,  in  1841,  of  which  the  significant  title  was  The  Transient  and  Permanent  in  Chris- 
tianity. He  went  to  Europe  in  1843,  and  spent  a  year.  In  1845  he  began  to  preach  for  the 
Twenty-eighth  Congregational  Society,  an  independent  gathering  of  his  followers,  and 
thenceforth  had  no  connection  with  the  Unitarian  body.  He  attracted  large  audiences,  first 
in  the  Melodeon  and  afterwards  in  the  Music  Hall.  He  regarded  the  Bible  as  a  religious 
history,  but  denied  its  plenary  inspiration,  if  not  its  divine  origin.  He  developed  his  idea  of 


THEODORE    PARKER.  339 

God  from  the  operations  of  reason,  and  with  great  earnestness  taught  the  doctrine  of  an 
immortal  life.  He  was  an  advocate  of  temperance,  of  social  reform,  and  of  universal 
liberty.  The  anti-slavery  movement  was  then  new  and  unpopular.  He  was  naturally  at- 
tacked both  by  religious  teachers  and  by  party  leaders,  and  his  retorts  were  constant  and 
bitter.  In  fact,  he  could  never  forget  his  opponents,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  most  pathetic  or 
the  most  noble  passages  in  his  sermons,  the  epithets  of  "kidnapper,"  and  "pharisee"  were 
sure  to  occur.  He  was  the  constant  friend  of  fugitive  slaves,  and  at  one  time  was  indicted 
for  counselling  resistance  to  the  authorities  when  a  slave  named  Anthony  Burns  was 
delivered  back  to  his  master.  In  private  life  he  was  amiable,  tender,  and  helpful.  A  large 
part  of  his  income  was  applied  to  charitable  purposes.  He  visited  all  classes  of  people, 
exploring  the  midnight  haunts  of  vice  and  the  dwellings  of  the  poor  and  outcast. 

His  writings  are  generally  strong  and  rugged  in  style.  He  addresses  the  reason,  and 
makes  few  appeals  to  the  feelings.  But  his  love  of  nature  was  intense,  and  nearly  every  dis- 
course has  some  tribute  to  the  beauty  of  the  seasons,  and  some  illustration  of  spiritual  truth 
drawn  from  the  visible  world.  He  excelled  also  in  pathetic  description,  and  gave  to  the 
ideas  of  home,  parents,  children,  age,  and  death,  a  tender  and  impressive  charm.  His  chief 
deficiency  as  a  writer  was  in  taste,  the  want  of  which  often  mars  his  general  literary 
excellence. 

His  life  of  constant  'activity  exhausted  his  vital  forces,  and  in  January,  1859,  he  relin- 
quished his  charge,  and  sailed  to  Santa  Cruz,  and  thence  to  Europe.  He  spent  some  time 
in  Switzerland  and  Italy,  and  died  at  Florence,  May  10,  1860. 

His  works,  published  by  Horace  B.  Fuller,  Boston,  are,  a  Discourse  of  Matters  Pertain- 
ing to  Religion  ;  Sermons  of  Theism,  Atheism,  and  the  Popular  Theology  ;  Ten  Sermons  of 
Religon ;  Additional  Speeches,  Addresses,  and  Occasional  Sermons ;  Critical  and  Miscel- 
laneous Writings;  Historic  Americans  —  Franklin,  Washington,  Adams,  and  Jefferson; 
The  Trial  of  Theodore  Parker ;  Prayers  ;  Selections  from  the  World  of  Mind  and  Matter  ; 
Translation  of  De  Wette's  Introduction  to  the  Old  Testament,  &c.  His  life  has  been  writ- 
ten by  the  Rev.  John  Weiss.  His  large  and  valuable  collection  of  books  —  over  thirteen 
thousand  volumes  —  was  given  by  him  to  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

[From  a  Sermon  of  Immortality.] 

ALL  men  desire  to  be  immortal.  This  desire  is  instinctive,  natural, 
universal.  In  God's  world  such  a  desire  implies  the  satisfaction 
thereof  equally  natural  and  universal.  It  cannot  be  that  God  has 
given  man  the  universal  desire  of  immortality,  this  belief  in  it,  and 
yet  made  it  all  a  mockery.  Man  loves  truth  ;  tells  it ;  rests  only  in  it ; 
—  how  much  more  God,  who  is  the  trueness  of  truth  !  Bodily  senses 
imply  their  objects  ;  — the  eye,  light ;  the  ear,  sound  ;*the  touch,  the 
taste,  the  smell,  things  relative  thereto.  Spiritural  senses  likewise 
foretell  their  object  —  are  silent  prophecies  of  endless  life.  The  love 
of  justice,  beauty,  truth,  of  man  and  God,  points  to  realities  unseen 
as  yet.  We  are  ever  hungering  after  noblest  things,  and  what  we 
feed  on  makes  us  hunger  more.  The  senses  are  satisfied,  but  the 
soul  never.  .  .  . 

Shall  we  remember  the  deeds  of  the  former  life  — this  man  that  he 
picked  rags  out  of  the  mud  in  the  streets,  and  another  that  he  ruled 
nations  ?  Who  can  tell  ?  nay,  who  need  care  to  ask  ?  Such  a 
remembrance  seems  not  needed  for  retribution's  sake.  The  oak 


34O       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

remembers  not  each  leaf  it  ever  bore,  though  each  helped  to  form 
the  oak,  its  branch  and  bole.  How  much  has  gone  from  our  bodies  ? 
We  know  not  how  it  came  or  went !  How  much  of  our  past  life  is 
gone  from  our  memory,  yet  its  result  lives  in  our  character !  The 
saddler  remembers  not  every  stitch  he  took  while  a  'prentice,  yet 
each  stitch  helped  form  the  saddler.  .  .  . 

I  would  not  slight  this  wondrous  world.  I  love  its  day  and  night. 
Its  flowers  and  its  fruits  are  dear  to  me.  I  would  not  wilfully  lose 
sight  of  a  departing  cloud.  Every  year  opens  new  beauty  in  a  star, 
or  in  a  purple  gentian  fringed  with  loveliness.  The  laws,  too,  of 
matter  seem  more  wonderful  the  more  I  study  them,  in  the  whirling 
eddies  of  the  dust,  in  the  curious  shells  of  former  life  buried  by 
thousands  in  a  grain  of  chalk,  or  in  the  shining  diagrams  of  light 
above  my  head.  Even  the  ugly  becomes  beautiful  when  truly  seen. 
I  see  the  jewel  in  the  bunchy  toad.  The  more  I  live,  the  more  I 
love  this  lovely  world  ;  feel  more  its  Author  in  each  little  thing  —  in 
all  that's  great.  But  yet  I  feel  my  immortality  the  more.  In  child- 
hood the  consciousness  of  immortal  life  buds  forth  feeble,  though 
full  of  promise.  In  the  man  it  unfolds  its  fragrant  petals,  his  most 
celestial  flower,  to  mature  its  seed  throughout  eternity.  The  pros- 
pect of  that  everlasting  life,  the  perfect  justice  yet  to  come,  the 
infinite  progress  before  us,  cheer  and  comfort  the  heart.  Sad  and 
disappointed,  full  of  self-reproach,  we  shall  not  be  so  forever.  The 
light  of  heaven  breaks  upon  the  night  of  trial,  sorrow,  sin  ;  the 
sombre  clouds  which  overhang  the  east,  grown  purple  now,  tell  us 
the  dawn  of  heaven  is  coming  in.  Our  faces,  gleamed  on  by  that, 
smile  in  the  new-born  glow  ;  we  are  beguiled  of  our  sadness  before 
we  are  aware. 


[From  a  Sermon  of  Old  Age.] 

THERE  is  a  period  when  the  apple  tree  blossoms  with  its  fellows 
of  the  wood  and  field.  How  fair  a  time  it  is  !  All  nature  is  woo- 
some  and  winning  ;  the  material  world  celebrates  its  vegetable  loves  ; 
and  the  flower-bells,  touched  by  the  winds  of  Spring,  usher  in  the 
universal  marriage  of  Nature.  Beast,  bird,  insect,  reptile,  fish,  plant, 
lichen,  with  their  prophetic  colors  spread,  all  float  forward  on  the 
tide  of  new  life.  Then  comes  the  Summer.  Many  a  blossom  falls 
fruitless  to  the  ground,  littering  the  earth  with  beauty,  never  to  be 
used.  Thick  leaves  hide  the  process  of  creation,  which  first  blushed 


THEODORE    PARKER.  34! 

public  in  the  flowers,  and  now  unseen  goes  on.  For  so  life's  most 
deep  and  fruitful  hours  are  hid  in  mystery.  Apples  are  growing  on 
every  tree  ;  all  summer  long,  they  grow,  and  in  early  Autumn.  At 
length  the  fruit  is  fully  formed  ;  the  leaves  begin  to  fall,  letting  the 
sun  approach  more  near.  The  apple  hangs  there  yet ;  not  to  grow, 
only  to  ripen.  Weeks  long  it  clings  to  the  tree  ;  it  gains  nothing  in 
size  and  weight.  Externally,  there  is  increase  of  beauty.  Having 
finished  the  form  from  within,  Nature  brings  out  the  added  grace  of 
color.  It  is  not  a  tricksy  fashion  painted  on,  but  an  expression 
which  of  itself  comes  out  —  a  fragrance  and  a  loveliness  of  the 
apple's  innermost.  Within,  at  the  same  time,  the  component  ele- 
ments are  changing.  The  apple  grows  mild  and  pleasant.  It 
softens,  sweetens  —  in  one  word,  it  mellows.  Some  night,  the  vital 
forces  of  the  tree  get  drowsy,  and  the  Autumn,  with  gentle  breath, 
just  shakes  the  bough  ;  the  expectant  fruit  lets  go  its  hold,  full 
grown,  full  ripe,  full  colored  too,  and  with  plump  and  happy  sound 
the  apple  falls  into  the  Autumn's  lap ;  and  the  Spring's  marriage 
promise  is  complete.  .  .  . 

The  farmer  tills  his  ground  for  the  annual  harvest,  but  his  good 
tillage  fertilizes  the  soil ;  and  without  his  thinking  of  it,  his  farm 
grows  richer  and  his  estate  larger.  And  just  so  it  is  with  the  true, 
good  man  :  as  the  years  go  by  him,  his  estate  of  religion  greatens, 
and  becomes  more  and  more.  The  little  flowers  of  humanity  —  a 
warm  spring  day  calls  them  out,  where  there  is  no  deepness  of 
earth  ;  but  to  raise  the  great  oak  trees  of  human  righteousness,  you 
want  a  deep,  rich  soil,  and  threescore,  fourscore,  fivescore  summers 
and  winters,  for  the  tree  to  grow  in,  broadly  buttressed  below,  broad- 
branched  above,  to  wrestle  with  the  winds,  and  take  the  sunshine 
of  God's  heaven  on  its  top.  And  that  is  the  value  of  long  life  —  it  is 
an  opportunity  to  grow  great  and  ripen  through.  It  is  out  of  Time 
and  Nature  that  man  makes  life  ;  long  time  is  needed,  as  well  as  noble 
nature,  for  a  great  life.  .  .  . 

Grandfather  is  old.  His  back  also  is  bent.  In  the  street  he  sees 
crowds  of  men  looking  dreadfully  young,  and  walking  fearfully  swift. 
He  wonders  where  all  the  old  folks  are.  Once,  when  a  boy,  he  could 
not  find  people  young  enough  for  him,  and  sidled  up  to  any  young 
stranger  he  met  on  Sundays,  wondering  why  God  made  the  world  so 
old.  Now  he  goes  to  commencement  to  see  his  grandsons  take 
their  degree,  and  is  astonished  at  the  youth  of  the  audience.  "  This 
is  new,"  he  says  ;  "  it  did  not  use  to  be  so  fifty  years  before."  At 


342       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

meeting,  the  minister  seems  surprisingly  young,  the  audience  young  ; 
and  he  looks  round  and  is  astonished  that  there  are  so  few  vener- 
able heads.  The  audience  seems  not  decorous  ;  they  come  in  late, 
and  hurry  off  early,  clapping  the  doors  to  after  them  with  irreverent 
bang.  But  grandfather  is  decorous,  well-mannered,  early  in  his 
seat ;  jostled,  he  jostles  not  again ;  elbowed,  he  returns  it  not ; 
crowded,  he  thinks  no  evil.  He  is  gentlemanly  to  the  rude,  obliging 
to  the  insolent  and  vulgar  —  for  grandfather  is  a  gentleman,  not 
puffed  up  with  mere  money,  but  edified  with  well-grown  manliness. 
Time  has  dignified  his  good  manners. 

Now  it  is  night.  Grandfather  sits  by  his  old-fashioned  fire.  The 
family  are  all  abed.  He  draws  his  old-fashioned  chair  nearer  to  the 
hearth.  On  the  stand  which  his  mother  gave  him  are  the  candle- 
sticks, also  of  old  time.  The  candles  are  three  quarters  burnt 
down  ;  the  fire  on  the  hearth  also  is  low.  He  has  been  thoughtful 
all  day,  talking  half  to  himself,  chanting  a  bit  of  verse,  humming  a 
snatch  of  an  old  tune.  He  kissed  more  tenderly  than  common  his 
youngest  granddaughter,  —  the  family  pet,  —  before  she  went  to 
bed.  He  takes  out  of  his  bosom  a  little  locket  —  nobody  ever  sees 
it.  Therein  are  two  little  twists  of  hair,  common  hair  —  it  might  be 
yours  or  mine.  But  as  grandfather  looks  at  them,  the  outer  twist  of 
hair  becomes  a  whole  head  of  most  ambrosial  curls.  He  remembers 
the  stolen  interviews,  the  meetings  by  moonlight,  and  how  sweet  the 
evening  star  looked,  and  how  he  laid  his  hand  on  another's  shoulder. 
"  You  are  my  evening  star,"  quoth  he.  He  remembers 

"  The  fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  that  pale  Passion  loves." 

He  thinks  of  his  bridal  hour.     .     .     . 

The  last  stick  on  his  andirons  snaps  asunder,  and  falls  outward. 
Two  faintly  smoking  brands  stand  there.  Grandfather  lays  them 
together,  and  they  flame  up ;  the  two  smokes  are  one  united  flame. 
"  Even  so  let  it  be  in  heaven,"  says  grandfather. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE.  /  343 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE. 

Edgar  Poe  was  born  in  Baltimore  in  January,  iSn.  He  was  the  son  of  a  lawyer,  who  had 
abandoned  his  profession,  married  an  actress,  and  gone  upon  the  stage.  Upon  the  death  of 
his  parents,  Edgar,  who  was  a  bright  and  beautiful  boy,  was  adopted  and  carefully  educated 
by  Mr.  John  Allan,  of  Richmond.  He  was  sent  to  school  at  Stoke  Newington,  near 
London,  for  some  years,  and  aftenvards  entered  the  University  of  Virginia.  He  was  the 
foremost  scholar  of  his  class,  and  might  have  finished  his  course  with  honor,  but  he  was 
expelled  for  his  profligate  habits.  From  this  time  he  had  "  adventures  "  enough,  mostly 
disgraceful,  and  often  criminal,  to  furnish  the  incidents  for  an  eighteenth  century  novel. 
Having  contracted  debts  which  his  patron  refused  to  pay,  he  went  abroad  to  join  the  patriot 
Greeks  ;  but  after  a  year  he  appeared  at  St.  Petersburg,  in  a  state  of  destitution,  and  was 
sent  home  by  the  interposition  of  the  American  minister.  Mr.  Allan  received  him  with  for- 
giveness, and  procured  his  appointment  as  a  cadet  at  West  Point.  In  ten  months  he  was 
expelled.  On  returning  home  he  found  that  Mr.  Allan  had  married  a  young  and  handsome 
woman  for  a  second  wife.  For  some  grave  reason  not  made  public,  Poe  was  turned  out  of 
the  house,  and  the  relationship  was  at  an  end.  Mr.  Allan  died  not  long  after,  and  made  no 
mention  of  him  in  his  will. 

Poe  published  a  small  volume  of  Poems  in  Baltimore,  but  shortly  after  he  was  driven  by 
poverty  to  enlist  as  a  common  soldier  in  the  army.  He  deserted,  as  might  have  been  expected. 
He  next  obtained  a  prize  offered  for  a  story,  and  found  friends  through  whose  aid  he  became 
editor  of  the  Literary  Messenger  in  Richmond.  He  wrote  with  great  industry  for  a  while, 
but  soon  fell  into  bad  habits,  quarrelled  with  the  proprietor,  and  was  dismissed.  While  in 
Richmond  he  had  married  his  cousin  ;  and  with  her  he  went  to  New  York,  and  became  a 
contributor  to  literary  periodicals.  He  edited  Burton's  Magazine,  and  then  Graham's 
Magazine,  in  Philadelphia.  After  the  usual  quarrel  he  went  to  New  York,  and  was  em- 
ployed by  Willis  upon  the  Mirror.  In  the  mean  time  his  Adventures  of  Arthur  Gordon 
Pym,  the  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  the  Arabesque,  and  his  remarkable  story,  The  Gold 
Bug,  had  been  published.  His  poem  The  Raven  appeared  in  the  American  Review,  and 
gave  him  an  immense  reputation.  At  this  time  he  enjoyed  a  season  of  comparative  quiet. 
He  became  connected  with  the  Broadway  Journal,  which  he  edited  for  a  year  or  more.  He 
published  a  series  of  criticisms  in  the  Lady's  Book,  styled  The  Literati,  now  forming  the 
third  volume  of  his  works.  It  is  seldom  in  any  country  that  such  a  savage,  wielding  such 
weapons,  puts  on  the  war-paint  and  attempts  such  havoc  in  the  peaceful  fields  of  letters. 
Not  that  there  was  not  a  great  deal  of  power  and  some  grains  of  truth  in  his  strictures ;  but 
his  utter  want  of  moral  principle,  his  prejudices,  wilfulness,  and  brutality,  combined  to 
render  them  the  most  worthless,  as  they  were  the  most  ill-mannered,  articles  ever  printed. 
He  praised  the  vapid  productions  of  obscure  authors,  and  condemned  every  poet  of  repute. 
Time,  which  is  the  sure  test  of  excellence,  has  made  his  passionate  invectives  and  com- 
mendations alike  ludicrous. 

After  the  death  of  his  wife  he  had  formed  an  engagement  with  a  lady  in  Richmond,  and 
the  wedding  day  was  fixed.  On  his  way  to  New  York,  he  fell  in  with  some  of  his  old  com- 
panions in  dissipation  at  Baltimore  ;  he  soon  became  drunk,  wandered  into  the  streets,  and 
the  same  night  perished  miserably  from  exposure  (October  7,  1849). 

The  character  of  Poe  was  thoroughly  depraved.  There  was  no  baseness  of  which  he  was 
not  capable,  hardly  any  enormity  that  he  did  not  commit.  And  he  appears  to  have  been 
entirely  wanting  in  moral  sense.  The  exhibitions  he  made  of  himself  are  in  perfect  keeping 
with  the  characteristics  of  his  poetry  and  of  his  tales.  His  intellect  was  sharp,  electric, 
powerful,  and  it  had  been  carefully  trained.  Of  the  cultivation  which  books  and  study  give 
he  had  no  small  measure.  His  sense  of  melody,  his  perception  of  the  proprieties  of  style 
and  of  just  proportion  in  structure,  were  marvellous.  With  the  smallest  particle  of  honesty 
he  would  have  made  an  admirable  critic  ;  the  want  of  it  made  his  praise  and  his  censure  as 


344  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

uncertain  as  the  wind,  and  as  little  regarded.  The  reader  will  search  his  works  in  vain  for 
the  least  exhibition  of  real  feeling.  The  Raven,  as  all  admit,  is  a  wonderful  poem  ;  but  it 
has  not  a  line  that  might  not  have  been  written  by  a  fallen  and  unrepentant  angel.  His 
tales  are  masterpieces  of  construction,  but  when  their  secret  is  revealed  their  interest  is  at 
an  end ;  for  they  have  no  elements  of  human  sympathy ;  they  leave  no  impression  of  good  ; 
they  are  miracles  of  clock-work,  not  immoral,  but  »w-moral. 

There  is  sometimes  a  period  in  the  growth  of  men  when  the  intellect  is  deified,  and  goodness 
little  esteemed  —  when  dazzling  characters,  like  Byron,  are  admired.  But  if  youth  would  be 
taught  what  mere  intellect  may  be  without  the  moral  element,  let  them  consider  the  works, 
the  character,  and  career  of  Poe.  The  poet  must  express  his  inmost  qualities  in  his  verse  ; 
and  the  noblest  poetry  in  all  its  varied  but  harmonious  elements  is  the  visible  soul  of  the 
noblest  man. 

The  complete  works  of  Poe  were  published  in  four  vols.,  i2mo.,  by  J.  S.  Redfield,  New 
York,  1849.  A  handsome  edition  of  his  poems,  with  illustrations  by  the  first  English  artists, 
and  a  smaller  edition  in  "blue  and  gold,"  have  been  published  by  the  same  house. 

[From  a  tale  entitled  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher.] 
THE  WRECK   OF  A   NOBLE   MIND. 

IN  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace  — 

Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion  — 

It  stood  there ! 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair ! 


Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow, 
(This  —  all  this  —  was  in  the  olden 

Time,  long  ago,) 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley, 

Through  two  luminous  windows,  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting 

(Porphyrogene  !) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE.  345 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace-door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate. 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn  !  —  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate  !) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed, 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travellers,  now,  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody, 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh  —  but  smile  no  more. 


THE  RAVEN. 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore  — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "tapping  at  my  chamber  door  — 
Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor : 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow  ;  —  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore  — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  — 
Nameless  here  forevermore. 


346       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating, 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door  — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door ; 
This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger :  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore  ; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you."     Here  I  opened  wide  the  door  : 
Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I   stood  there  wondering, 

fearing, 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to  dream  before  ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word,  "Lenore  !  " 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word,  "  Lenore  !  "  — 
Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  something  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window  lattice ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore  — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  explore  ;  — 
'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he  ;  not  a  minute  stopped  or  staid  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber  door  — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door  — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure 
no  craven, 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE.  347 

Ghastly  grim   and    ancient   Raven  wandering    from   the   Nightly 

shore  — 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  !  " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning,  little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door,  — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door,  — 
With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered  ;  not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered  — 
Till  I    scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "Other  friends   have  flown 

before  — 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have  flown  before." 
Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  uttered  is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore  — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 
Of  '  Never  —  nevermore  ! '  " 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and  bust  and 

door  ; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore  — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl,  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core ; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o'er 
She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore  ! 


34^       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen 

censer 

Swung  by  seraphim  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee  —  by  these  angels  he 

hath  sent  thee 

Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore  ! 
Quaff,  O,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore  ! " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "   said    I,    "  thing  of  evil !  —  prophet   still,   if  bird  or 

devil !  — 

Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted  — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted  —  tell  me  truly,  I  implore  — 
Is  there  —  is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell  me  —  tell  me,  I  implore  !  " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil !  —  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us  —  by  that  God  we  both  adore  — 
Tell  this  soul,  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend  !  "  I  shrieked,  up- 
starting — 

"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  !  —  quit  the  bust  above  my  door  ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door ! 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door  ; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 

And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the 

floor; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 


GEORGE    WASHINGTON    GREENE.  349 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON   GREENE. 

George  Washington  Greene  was  born  in  East  Greenwich,  R.  I.,  April  8,  1811.  He  en- 
tered Brown  University,  but  left  in  his  junior  year  on  account  of  ill  health,  and  went  to 
Europe,  where  he  remained,  excepting  a  few  visits  to  this  country,  until  1847.  From  1837 
to  1845  he  was  United  States  consul  at  Rome.  He  wrote  for  the  North  American  Review 
a  series  of  essays  upon  Italian  history,  which  have  been  collected  under  the  title  of  Histori- 
cal Studies.  On  his  return  to  the  United  States,  he  became  professor  of  modern  lanjjuages 
at  Brown  University.  In  1852  he  removed  to  New  York,  where  he  edited  the  works  of 
Addison  (1854),  and  continued  writing  for  periodicals.  He  wrote,  for  Sparks's  American 
Biography,  the  life  of  his  grandfather,  General  Nathanael  Greene,  and  he  has  since  (1867-71) 
published  an  enlarged  edition  of  his  Life  and  Letters,  three  vols.,  8vo.  A  second  series  of 
his  essays  has  been  published,  entitled  A§  Historical  View  of  the  American  Revolution. 

The  works  of  Mr.  Greene  command  the  respect  of  scholars  from  the  faithful  study  they 
exhibit,  as  well  as  for  the  moderation  of  tone  and  the  clear  and  easy  style  in  which  they  are 
written. 

[From  the  Historical  View  of  the  American  Revolution.] 
BARON   STEUBEN. 

STEUBEN  was  the  son  of  a  captain  of  engineers  ;  born  in  a  gar- 
rison, and  with  no  prospect  of  fortune  or  preferment  but  such  as  he 
could  open  for  himself  with  his  sword.  His  earliest  associations 
were  with  armies  and  camps.  When  a  mere  child  he  had  followed 
his  father  to  the  Crimea  and  Cronstadt,  and  played  among  the  forti- 
fications that  the  old  soldier  was  constructing  with  much  professional 
skill  and  absolute  professional  indifference  as  to  whom  they  defended, 
or  who  might  lose  his  life  in  winning  them.  Then  came  two  or  three 
years  of  study  in  a  Jesuit  college,  where  he  laid  good  foundations  in 
mathematics  and  history,  and  acquired  some  tincture  of  polite  liter- 
ature. French,  under  Frederic,  was  as  important  a  language  for  a 
German  who  wished  to  push  his  fortunes  as  German  itself ;  and 
Steuben  studied  them  both  with  equal  care.  But  the  sound  of  the 
drum  broke  rudely  in  upon  these  softening  pursuits,  and  before  he 
was  fully  turned  of  fourteen,  and  while  Washington  was  learning 
arithmetic,  and  filling  his  copy-book  with  legal  and  mercantile  forms, 
at  Mr.  Williams's  school,  near  Bridge's  Creek,  his  future  inspector- 
general  was  already  serving  as  a  volunteer  in  the  campaign  of  1744, 
at  the  siege  of  Prague.  The  upward  path  in  the  Prussian  army  was 
a  hard  path  to  climb,  and  many  there  were  who  left  arms,  and  legs, 
and  life  itself  by  the  way.  Young  Steuben  entered  it  with  the  enthu- 
siasm of  a  high-spirited  youth  reared  in  the  midst  of  warlike  exer- 
cises and  traditions  of  military  glory.  When  the  seven  years'  war 
broke  out,  he  had  already  reached  the  rank  of  first  lieutenant. 
Meanwhile  his  leisure  hours  had  been  well  employed ;  building  up 


3 SO       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

surely  upon  the  foundations  he  had  laid  during  his  short  college  life, 
and  making  himself  master  of  engineering  and  the  most  difficult  of 
the  scientific  parts  of  his  profession.  Never  before,  in  modern  times, 
had  its  practical  lessons  and  all  its  highest  principles  been  applied 
as  they  were  applied  by  Frederic  during  that  bloody  war  ;  and  they 
who,  like  Steuben,  fought  through  it  all,  might  well  claim  that  they 
had  studied  in  war's  greatest  school.  Steuben  had  one  advantage 
beyond  most  of  his  comrades,  and  an  advantage  which  was  at  the 
same  time  the  highest  distinction.  Frederic,  who,  in  the  distribu- 
tion of  his  military  favors,  never  took  birth,  or  fortune,  or  anything 
but  merit,  into  consideration,  had  chosen  among  his  younger  officers 
a  select  number  to  study  under  his  own  eye,  teaching  and  exam- 
ining them  himself.  Steuben  was  one  of  them.  .  .  . 

To  supply  these  deficiencies  [in  the  American  army],  to  introduce 
uniform  systems  of  manoeuvre,  inspection,  and  returns  ;  to  infuse  a 
spirit  of  order  and'harmony  into  all  the  departments  of  the  army  ;  to 
inspire  officers  with  self-reliance  and  an  intuitive  perception  of  what- 
ever the  moment  might  require,  and  men  with  confidence  in  their  offi- 
cers, and  prompt  and  intelligent  obedience  to  their  orders,  was  the 
task  of  Steuben  —  a  task  which  can  only  be  appreciated  by  those  who 
take  the  pains  to  study,  in  detail,  the  difficulties  with  which  he  had 
to  contend.  .  .  . 

He  first  drafted  a  hundred  and  twenty  men  from  the  line,  as  a 
guard  for  the  commander-in-chief.  This  was  his  school.  Twice 
every  day  he  drilled  them  himself,  teaching  them  to  march,  to 
wheel,  to  bear  arms,  and  even  to  execute  some  elementary  manoeu- 
vres. Hitherto,  the  American  officers  had  left  the  care  of  drilling 
the  soldiers  to  their  sergeants,  as  a  thing  below  the  dignity  of  an 
officer.  The  sight  of  a  man  of  Steuben's  rank  and  experience, 
with  his  glittering  star  on  his  breast,  marching  and  wheeling  with 
common  soldiers,  taking  their  muskets  into  his  own  hands,  and 
showing  them  how  to  handle  them,  produced  a  great  revulsion  in 
their  ideas,  and  presently  colonels  and  lieutenant  colonels  entered 
cheerfully  into  the  good  work,  some,  perhaps,  with  the  feeling 
that,  like  Gil  Bias's  uncle,  they  would  thus  learn  full  as  much 
as  they  taught.  In  a  fortnight  this  school  moved  and  looked  like 
soldiers,  and  before  Monmouth  came,  the  leaven  from  this  little 
nucleus  had  penetrated  the  whole  army.  ... 

Never  before  had  an  American  army  been  trained  like  this  army 
of  Valley  Forge.  "  Never,"  said  Hamilton,  when  at  Monmouth 
he  saw  a  division  in  full  retreat  halt  at  Steuben's  command,  and 


ALFRED    BILLINGS    STREET.  35 1 

form  as  coolly  under  a  close  and  heavy  fire  as  they  would  have 
formed  on  parade,  —  "  never  did  I  know  or  conceive  the  value  of 
military  discipline  before."  .  .  . 

A  regular  and  vigorous  inspection  brought,  at  stated  times,  the 
whole  army  under  the  supervision  of  officers  eager  to  show  their 
zeal  in  the  performance  of  a  difficult  duty.  Till  then,  as  I  have 
already  said,  there  had  been  an  annual  loss  of  more  than  five 
thousand  muskets,  and  the  war  office,  in  making  out  its  estimates 
for  the  year,  had  regularly  made  allowance  for  that  number.  In 
the  returns  under  Steuben's  inspectorship,  only  three  muskets  were 
missing  in  one  year,  and  those  three  were  accounted  for.  .  .  . 

And  what  was  his  reward  ?  An  eight  years'  struggle  with  pov- 
erty and  its  bitter  humiliations  ;  to  be  publicly  insulted  as  living 
upon  national  bounty,  when  a  tardy  justice  had  compelled  Con- 
gress to  acknowledge  his  claims  and  buy  them  off  with  an  annuity 
of  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  ;  a  grave  so  little  respected  that  a 
public  road  was  run  over  it,  laying  its  sacred  contents  bare  to  the 
rains  of  heaven,  and  to  the  eye  and  even  the  hand  of  vulgar  curi- 
osity, till  individual  reverence,  performing  the  part  of  national  grati- 
tude, removed  the  desecrated  bones  to  a  surer  resting-place  ;  and  a 
name  in  American  history  overshadowed  and  almost  forgotten,  till  a 
countryman  of  his  own,  making  himself,  as  Steuben  had  done,  an 
American  in  heart  and  feeling,  without  sacrificing  the  instincts  of  his 
nativity,  gathered  together,  with  German  industry  and  German  zeal, 
the  scattered  records  of  his  services,  and  portrayed,  in  faithful  and 
enduring  colors,  his  achievements  in  war,  his  virtues  in  peace,  his 
rare  endowments  of  mind,  and  the  still  nobler  qualities  of  his  heart. 


ALFRED   BILLINGS   STREET. 

Alfred  Billings  Street  was  born  in  Poughkeepsie,^N.  Y.,  December  18,  1811.  At  four- 
teen years  of  age  he  removed,  with  his  father,  to  Monticello,  in  Sullivan  County,  where  he 
studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  In  1839  he  removed  to  Albany,  where  he  has 
since  resided,  and  has  filled  the  place  of  state  librarian. 

His  first  volume  of  poems,  entitled  The  Burning  of  Schenectady,  was  published  in  1842. 
In  1844  a  second  collection  appeared,  entitled  Drawings  and  Tintings.  Frontenac,  his 
longest  poem,  appeared  in  1849.  He  published  a  history  of  certain  New  York  courts,  en- 
titled The  Council  of  Revision,  in  1860,  and  in  the  same  year  an  account  of  the  Saranacand 
Raquette  Lakes,  of  Northern  New  York,  under  the  title  of  Woods  and  Waters. 

Mr.  Street  has  the  tastes  of  a  landscape  painter  of  the  realistic  school.  As  we  read  we 
walk  with  him  through  the  forests  and  by  the  banks  of  rivers.  His  pages  give  us  a  minute 
and  faithful  record,  of  every  picturesque  view,  a  notice  of  every  variety  of  tree  and  flower, 


353  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

and  of  every  native  of  the  woods.  His  perception  of  the  beautiful  is  not  of  general  effects,  but 
of  details,  and  we  have  carefully  painted  studies  rather  than  comprehensive  pictures.  The 
points  that  fill  the  eye  or  strike  the  ear  with  pleasure  are  all  enumerated,  but  we  miss  the 
imaginative  power  that  blends  the  separate  observations  into  a  symmetrical  whole.  This  is 
the  faculty  which  he  lacks,  and  it  is  the  crowning  faculty  of  the  poet.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  he  has  wrought  with  conscientious  fidelity,  and  that  his  studies  are  true  and  beautiful. 
But  his  range  of  thought,  as  well  as  of  observation,  is  not  the  broadest,  and  he  must  be 
classed  among  the  painstaking  students  of  nature,  and  not  among  the  masters  of  its  secret 
power,  the  interpreters  of  its  divine  lessons. 

[From  The  Willewemoc  in  Summer.] 

BLUE  sky,  pearl  cloud,  and  golden  beam 

Beguile  my  steps  this  summer  day, 
Beside  the  lone  and  lovely  stream, 

And  'mid  its  sylvan  scenes  to  stray. 
The  moss,  too  delicate  and  soft 
To  bear  the  tripping  bird  aloft, 
Slopes  its  green  velvet  to  the  sedge, 
Tufting  the  mirrored  water's  edge, 
Where  the  slow  eddies  wrinkling  creep 
'Mid  swaying  grass  in  stillness  deep  : 
The  sweet  wind  scarce  has  breath  to  turn 

The  edges  of  the  leaves,  or  stir 

The  fragile  wreath  of  gossamer 
Embroidered  on  yon  clump  of  fern. 
The  stream  incessant  greets  my  ear 

In  hollow  dashings,  —  full  round  tones,  — 
Purling  'mid  alder  branches  here, 

There  gurgling  o'er  the  tinkling  stones  ; 
The  rumble  of  the  waterfall 
Majestic  sounding  over  all. 

Before  me  spreads  the  sheltered  pool, 

Pictured  with  tree-shapes  black  and  cool : 

Here  the  roofed  water  seems  to  be 

A  solid  mass  of  ebony  ; 

There  the  lit  surface  glances  bright 

In  dazzling  gleams  of  spangled  light : 

Now  the  quick  darting  waterfly 

Ploughs  its  light  furrow,  skimming  by, 

While  circling  o'er  in  mazy  rings, 

The  chirping  swallow  dips  his  wings  ; 

Relieved  against  yon  sunny  glare 

The  gnat-swarms,  dust-like,  speck  the  air  ; 


ALFRED  BILLINGS  STREET.  353 

From  yon  deep  cove  where  lily-gems 
Are  floating  by  their  silken  stems, 
Out  glides  the  dipping  duck  to  seek 
The  narrow  windings  of  the  creek, 
The  glitterings  of  his  purple  back 
Disclosing  far  his  sinuous  track  ; 
Now  sliding  down  yon  grassy  brink 
I  see  the  otter  plunge  and  sink  ; 
Yon  bubbling  streak  betrays  his  rise, 
And  through  the  furrowing  sheet  he  plies. 

The  aspen  shakes,  the  hemlock  hums  — 

Damp  with  the  shower  the  west  wind  comes  ; 

Rustling  in  heaps  the  quivering  grass, 

It  darkening  dots  the  streamlet's  glass, 

And  rises  with  the  herald-breeze 

The  cloud's  dark  umber  o'er  the  trees ; 

A  veil  of  gauze-like  mist  it  flings, 

Dimples  the  stream  with  transient  rings, 

And  soon  beneath  this  tent-like  tree 

The  swift,  bright,  glancing  streaks  I  see, 

And  hear  around  in  murmuring  strain 

The  gentle  music  of  the  rain. 

Then  bursts  the  sunshine  warm  and  gay, 

The  misty  curtain  melts  away, 

The  clouds  in  fragments  break,  and  through 

Trembles  in  spots  the  smiling  blue  ; 

A  fresh,  damp  sweetness  fills  the  scene, 

From  dripping  leaf  and  moistened  earth, 
The  odor  of  the  wintergreen 

Floats  on  the  airs  that  now  have  birth  ; 
Plashes  and  air-bells  all  about 
Proclaim  the  gambols  of  the  trout, 
And  calling  bush  and  answering  tree 
Echo  with  woodland  melody. 
Now  the  piled  west  in  pomp  displays 

The  radiant  forms  that  sunset  weaves, 
And  slanting  lines  of  golden  haze 

Are  streaming  through  the  sparkling  leaves. 
23 


354  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


NOAH   PORTER. 

Noah  Porter  was  born  in  Farmington,  Conn.,  in  1811.  and  was  graduated  at  Yale  College 
in  1831.  He  studied  theology  at  the  Yale  School,  while  tutor  in  the  college,  and  was 
ordained  pastor  of  the  Congregational  church  at  New  Milford,  Conn.,  in  1836.  In  1843  he 
removed  to  Springfield,  Mass.,  where  he  remained  until  1847,  when  he  was  appointed  pro- 
fessor of  moral  philosophy  and  metaphysics  in  Yale  College.  He  held  this  place  until  1871, 
when,  on  the  retirement  of  Dr.  Woolsey,  he  was  chosen  president.  His  principal  work 
is  a  text-book  upon  mental  philosophy,  entitled  The  Human  Intellect,  considered  by  many 
to  be  on  the  whole  the  ablest  presentation  of  its  great  subject  in  a  popular  form.  He  pub- 
lished in  1870  a  volume  on  Books  and  Reading —  a  very  candid,  discriminating,  and  catholic 
treatise.  His  other  works  are,  The  Educational  Systems  of  the  Puritans  and  the  Jesuits 
(1851),  The  American  Colleges  and  the  American  Public  (1870),  Elements  of  Intellectual 
Science  (1871),  The  Sciences  of  Nature  versus  the  Science  of  Man  :  a  Plea  for  the  Science 
of  Man  (1871).  He  has  been  a  contributor  to  the  New  Englander  and  other  periodicals,  and 
has  published  occasional  discourses  and  addresses.  He  was  also  editor-in-chief  of  the  last 
revised  edition  of  Webster's  Dictionary,  in  which  the  etymologies  were  wrought  over,  and 
the  definitions  recast 

[From  Books  and  Reading.] 

WE  should  be  contented  to  read  that  which  is  suitable  to  our 
present  development  of  thought  and  feeling,  or,  in  plainer  language, 
to  our  age  and  progress.  Everything  is  appropriate  and  beautiful  in 
its  season.  Eat  strawberries  in  May  or  June,  and  wait  for  peaches 
and  grapes  till  the  autumn.  Let  not  the  miss  just  entering  upon 
her  teens  expect  to  appreciate  the  poetry  or  philosophy  which  her 
brother  of  twenty-two  is  but  just  beginning  to  comprehend  and 
enjoy.  Above  all,  do  not  meddle  with  philosophy  of  any  sort,  whether 
it  comes  in  the  form  of  history,  of  fiction,  or  grave  discussion,  until 
you  can  grapple  with  its  problems  and  follow  its  subtile  abstractions. 

Let  your  reading  in  every  department  follow  somewhat  the  order 
of  nature  and  of  psychical  growth,  and  the  growth  will  be  all  the 
more  rapid  and  easy.  The  transitions  from  that  which  is  adapted 
to  earlier  and  later  youth,  and  -to  dawning  and  developed  manhood, 
will  be  easily  and  gracefully  accomplished,  and  both  intellect  and 
feeling  will  find,  in  the  abundant  variety  of  literary  productions,  suit- 
able and  satisfying  nutriment  for  their  newly-developed  wants  and 
tastes.  Important  aid  in  the  selection  of  the  right  books,  according 
to  this  rule,  may  be  derived  from  advisers  who  know  us  well.  But 
the  rule  furnishes  in  itself  the  means  for  its  own  enforcement,  if  we 
considerately  apply  it.  TAs  a  general  truth,  facts  should  come  before 
philosophy  ;  narrative  before  reflection  ;  objective  description  before 
subjective  meditation  ;  poetry  that  is  graphic,  outward,  and  pictur- 
esque before  that  which  is  meditative,  learned,  and  introverted  ;  and 


NOAH    PORTER.  355 

history,  that  paints  and  describes,  before  that  which  generalizes  and 
interprets.     .     .     . 

The  style  of  a  writer  should  often  determine  whether  we  read  or 
neglect  him.  But  what  is  style,  and  how  shall  we  judge  whether  it 
is  good  or  bad  ?  That  depends  upon  our  taste,  i.  e.,  whether  it  is 
healthy  or  vitiated,  whether  it  is  uncultured  or  rightly  trained.  Sav- 
ages and  semi-barbarians  are  fond  of  stimulating  and  strongly  con- 
trasted colors,  of  violent  and  spasmodic  gesticulations,  of  shrieking 
and  dissonant  sounds,  of  noisy  and  discordant  music.  So  in  litera- 
ture there  are  semi-barbarians,  who  delight  in  the  glaring  and  the 
grotesque,  the  extravagant  and  the  spasmodic,  the  vulgar  and  sensa- 
tional in  diction  and  imagery.  In  the  judgment  of  such,  those  books, 
journals,  and  newspapers  only  are  up  to  the  times,  and  produced  by 
live  wen,  which  are  distinguished  by  characteristics  that  belong  to 
the  barbaric  age.  That  writer  is  trenchant  and  brilliant  who  is  ill- 
mannered,  coarse,  personal,  and  vituperative.  That  orator  is  mag- 
nificently eloquent  who  ranges  through  the  Classical  Dictionary  for 
historic  parallels  to  common  men  and  common  occasions,  and  always 
rides  on  the  topmost  wave  of  his  tumid  diction.  Flippancy  and 
audacity  are  taken  for  genius  and  power,  and  a  perpetual  straining 
after  tawdry  ornaments  and  effective  diction,  such  as  remind  one  of 
war  paint  and  tattooing,  is  deemed  the  certain  indication  of  intellec- 
tual power.  People  of  more  refined  habits  and  a  more  perfectly 
developed  civilization  require  a  somewhat  different  style  in  the 
writers  whom  they  delight  to  read  —  as  strength  without  roughness, 
elegance  without  affectation,  ease  without  weakness,  copiousness 
without  verbosity,  and  courtesy  without  loss  of  dignity.  We  judge 
of  style  somewhat  as  we  do  of  manners.  Whatever  in  expression 
facilitates  the  easy  apprehension  and  the  pleasant  reception  of  the 
thoughts  and  sentiments  ;  whatever  fits  both  like  a  glove,  and  seems 
to  have  been  their  natural  growth  ;  whatever  in  form  is  the  unstudied 
product  of  an  earnest  and  refined  nature,  —  is,  in  general,  good  in 
style.  On  the  other  hand,  whatever  is  awkward,  indirect,  involved,  and 
difficult  to  follow  ;  whatever  is  factitious  and  affected ;  whatever  is 
overloaded  with  obtrusive  and  gaudy  decorations  ;  above  all,  what- 
ever is  swelling,  declamatory,  and  overstrained  in  its  illustration  is 
bad  in  diction,  —  is  bad  in  style.  We  may  read  an  author  whose  style 
is  defective  or.  bad  for  the  worth  of  his  matter ;  but  a  bad  style 
ought  never  to  please  or  attract  us,  and,  other  things  being  equal,  we 
cannot  but  prefer  the  well-written  to  the  badly-written  book. 

Style,  indeed,  is  not  to  be  judged  of  as  a  thing  of  the  supremest 


356       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

consequence,  but  as  chiefly  valuable  as  it  renders  easy  and  agreeable 
the  communication  of  thought  and  feeling.  "  The  more  sash,  the 
less  light,"  was  a  pithy  saying  in  respect  of  diction,  often  uttered  by 
a  writer  who  illustrated  the  rule  by  his  own  example.  It  is  slightly 
too  pointed  to  be  altogether  true.  A  window  may  serve  other  ends 
than  to  let  in  the  white  light  of  winter  or  the  dazzling  glance  of  sum- 
mer ;  and  style  may  be  allowed  to  color  and  warm  intellectual  clear- 
ness with  the  hues  that  express  emotion,  and  to  set  off  these  hues 
by  varying  contrasts  of  beauty  and  shading  ;  but  when  style  is  char- 
acterized by  mere  pomp  and  glitter,  by  artificial  nicety  or  studied 
effect,  it  deserves  the  contempt  of  every  person  of  sense,  as  truly 
when  seen  in  a  book  as  when  displayed  by  a  man.  But  as  in  con- 
versing with  men  we  are  naturally  pleased  with  an  easy  flow  of  lan- 
guage from  the  lips,  so  is  it  with  language  when  it  is  written.  There 
is  a  natural  grace,  and  order,  and  beauty  which  lend  a  charm  that 
cannot  be  described.  There  is  a  power  in  expression  by  which  a 
word  as  used  by  one  man  will  produce  a  stronger  impression  than  a 
page  composed  by  another.  By  one  writer  thought  is  thrust  forth 
as  dry  as  a  withered  branch  ;  by  another,  through  apt  illustration,  it 
is  made  fresh  and  blooming,  like  an  orange  bough  just  broken  from 
the  tree,  in  which  bud,  blossom,  and  fruit  mingle  their  fragrance  and 
beauty.  From  one  man  truth  falls  as  if  wrung  from  unwilling  lips  ; 
from  another  it  leaps  into  form  and  action  with  a  resistless  energy, 
warm  and  living,  startling  and  overpowering. 

It  is  of  vital  importance  to  our  success  and  pleasure  in  reading, 
that  the  books  which  we  read  should  be  well  written.  It  is  also  a 
prime  necessity  that  our  ideal  of  what  good  writing  is  should  be  just 
and  elevated.  Next  to  bad  morals  in  writing  should  be  ranked  bad 
manners  in  diction,  or  an  infelicitous  style.  Awkwardness  may  be 
excused,  and  even  accepted  as  an  excellence,  when  it  betokens  sin- 
cerity and  directness  of  aim  ;  but  vulgarity,  affectation,  vituperation, 
and  bullyism,  as  well  as  "  great  swelling  words  of  vanity,"  and  lofty 
airs  of  pompous  declamation,  whether  of  the  Asiatic  and  Oriental  or 
the  American  and  Occidental  type  ;  whether  heard  in  the  harangue 
from  the  hustings,  in  the  sermon  from  the  pulpit,  or  in  the  speech  to 
the  universe  in  the  legislature  ;  whether  written  in  the  newspaper  or 
the  essay,  —  are  more  nearly  akin  to  moral  defects  than  is  usually  be- 
lieved or  noticed.  Indeed,  they  rarely  fail  to  indicate  them.  Vague 
declamation  is  a  kind  of  conscious  falsehood.  Empty  rhetoric  is  a 
certain  sign,  as  well  as  an  efficient  promoter,  of  insincerity  and  hol- 
lo wn  ess,  of  sham  and  pretence  in  the  character. 


WENDELL    PHILLIPS.         ^1  j  357 


WENDELL    PHILLIPS. 

Wendell  Phillips  was  born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  November  29,  i8ri.  He  was  graduated  at 
Harvard  College  in  1831,  and  at  the  Cambridge  Law  School  in  1833.  He  made  his  first 
appearance  as  an  orator  in  December,  1837,  at  a  public  meeting  held  in  Faneuil  Hall,  to 
take  some  notice  of  the  murder  of  the  Rev.  E.  P.  Lovejoy,  at  Alton,  111.  (Mr.  Lovejoy  had 
established  an  anti-slavery  paper  in  Alton,  and  the  office  had  been  recently  mobbed,  and  he 
killed  while  defending  his  property).  The  conservative  portion  of  the  audience,  under  the 
lead  of  the  attorney  general,  endeavored  to  frustrate  the  purpose  of  those  who  called  the 
meeting.  Mr.  Phillips  was  young  and  comparatively  unknown,  but  he  was  roused  by  the 
occasion,  and,  in  a  brilliant  strain  of  invective,  he  attacked  the  position  of  those  who  at- 
tempted to  palliate  the  crime  that  had  been  committed  against  a  free  press.  His  impassioned 
eloquence  captivated  the  audience  ;  the  opposition  was  silenced,  and  the  original  resolutions 
presented  were  adopted. 

Mr.  Phillips  continued  to  labor  in  behalf  of  the  anti-slavery  cause,  although  he  and  his 
party  abstained  from  voting  and  from  political  action,  because  they  would  not  swear  to  sup- 
port the  constitution  of  the  United  States  so  long  as  it  protected  slavery.  Now  that  the 
institution  is  abolished,  he  finds  abundant  fields  for  his  labors  as  a  reformer.  He  is  one  of 
the  leading  advocates  of  woman  suffrage.  He  is  vehement  in  support  of  the  laws  that  make 
it  a  penal  offence  to  sell  intoxicating  drinks.  He  is  a  friend  of  the  Labor  Reformers  in  their 
desire  to  lighten  the  burdens  and  increase  the  comforts  and  the  mental  cultivation  of 
the  poor. 

As  an  orator  Mr.  Phillips  has  few  rivals,  and  scarcely  a  superior,  in  this  generation.  His 
voice  is  musical,  his  manner  at  once  earnest  and  graceful,  and  his  command  of  a  fluent  and 
idiomatic  speech  little  less  than  marvellous.  He  is  a  great  master  of  all  the  arts  of  attack. 
Preachers,  politicians,  and  men  in  high  places  generally,  who  differ  with  him  in  opinion, 
are  the  subjects  of  his  keenr  ridicule  and  his  withering  sarcasm.  Like  the  old  prophets  he 
has  always  a  '' burden."  He  is  a  natural  leader  of  men  when  on  the  platform  ;  he  knows 
how  to  reach  their  hearts,  if  not  through  their  reason  and  their  moral  sense,  then  by  their 
pride,  their  local  prejudices,  and  their  affections. 

But  those  who  have  listened  to  his  perfect  utterances,  whether  in  fervid  denunciation, 
indignant  protest,  or  pathetic  appeal,  seldom  have  the  opportunity  to  examine  in  cool  blood 
the  true  character  of  the  rhetoric  that  fascinated  them.  While  they  watched  the  magnificent 
stream  of  eloquence,  it  seemed  like  the  course  of  a  river  of  molten  lava.  Let  them  to-day 
walk  over  the  cooled  and  hardened  surface,  and  they  will  find  how  rough  and  full  of  scorias 
its  track  is.  Mr.  Phillips's  speeches  have  been  collected  in  a  handsome  volume,  with  a  por- 
trait. Apart  from  its  relations  to  the  topics  it  deals  with,  and  viewed  simply  as  a  specimen 
of  composition,  there  is  hardly  any  modern  book  so  disappointing.  The  apt  illustration,  the 
witty  anecdote,  the  emphatic  statement,  the  traces  of  strong  feeling,  are  to  be  seen  in  every 
discourse.  But  there  are  also  slang  phrases  and  vituperative  epithets,  which  might  be 
tolerated  in  an  off-hand  speech,  but  which  when  seen  on  the  printed  page  debase  the  style 
and  weaken  its  force.  From  the  extract  here  printed  it  would  seem  that  this  is  a  deliberate 
choice,  and  that  the  orator  has  no  regard  for  literature,  except  so  far  as  it  serves  practical 
ends. 

Mr.  Phillips  has  long  been  a  popular  lecturer,  and  never  fails  to  interest  his  audiences. 
Matter  and  manner  are  in  perfect  accord,  and  his  stately  presence  and  melodious  tones 
leave  an  impression  that  is  never  forgotten. 


358  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


PROSPECTIVE  INFLUENCE   OF   WOMEN   UPON  LITERATURE. 

I  SAID  justice  had  never  been  done  to  woman  for  her  influence 
upon  literature  and  society.  Society  is  the  natural  outgrowth  of  the 
New  Testament,  and  yet  nothing  deserving  of  the  name  ever  existed 
in  Europe  until,  two  centuries  ago,  in  France,  woman  called  it  into 
being.  Society,  —  the  only  field  where  the  sexes  have  ever  met  on 
terms  of  equality,  the  arena  where  character  is  formed  and  studied, 
the  cradle  and  the  realm  of  public  opinion,  the  crucible  of  ideas,  the 
world's  university,  at  once  a  school  and  a  theatre,  the  spur  and  the 
crown  of  ambition,  the  tribunal  which  unmasks  pretension  and  stamps 
real  merit,  the  power  that  gives  government  leave  to  be,  and  outruns 
the  lazy  church  in  fixing  the  moral  sense  of  the  age,  —  who  shall 
fitly  describe  the  lofty  place  of  this  element  in  the  history  of  the  last 
two  centuries  ?  Who  shall  deny  that,  more  than  anything  else,  it 
deserves  the  name  of  the  most  controlling  element  in  the  history  of 
the  two  centuries  just  finished  ?  And  yet  this  is  the  realm  of  woman, 
the  throne  which,  like  a  first  conqueror,  she  founded  and  then  filled. 

So  with  literature.  The  literature  of  three  centuries  ago  is  not 
decent  to  be  read :  we  expurgate  it.  Within  a  hundred  years 
woman  has  become  a  reader,  and  for  that  reason,  as  much  or  more 
than  anything  else,  literature  has  sprung  to  a  higher  level.  No  need 
now  to  expurgate  all  you  read.  Woman,  too,  is  .now  an  author  ;  and 
I  undertake  to  say  that  the  literature  of  the  next  century  will  be 
richer  than  the  classic  epochs,  for  that  cause.  Truth  is  one  forever, 
absolute,  but  opinion  is  truth  filtered  through  the  moods,  the  blood, 
the  disposition,  of  the  spectator.  Man  has  looked 'at  creation,  and 
given  us  his  impressions,  in  Greek  literature  and  English,  one-sided, 
half-way,  all  awry.  Woman  now  takes  the  stand  to  give  us  her 
views  of  God's  works  and  her  own  creation  ;  and  exactly  in  propor- 
tion as  woman,  though  equal,  is  eternally  different  from  man,  just  in 
that  proportion  will  the  literature  of  the  next  century  be  doubly  rich, 
because  we  shall  have  both  sides.  You  might  as  well  plant  yourself 
in  the  desert,  under  the  changeless  gray  and  blue,  and  assert  that 
you  have  seen  all  the  wonders  of  God's  pencil,  as  maintain  that  a 
male  literature —  Latin,  Greek,  or  Asiatic —  can  be  anything  but  a 
half  part,  poor  and  one-sided  ;  as  well  develop  only  muscle,  shutting 
out  sunshine  and  color,  and  starving  the  flesh  from  your  angular 
limbs,  and  then  advise  men  to  scorn  Titian's  flesh  and  the  Apollo, 
since  you  have  exhausted  manly  beauty,  as  think  to  stir  all  the  depths 
of  music  with  only  half  the  chords.  The  diapason  of  human  thought 


WENDELL    PHILLIPS.  359 

was  never  struck  till  Christian  culture  summoned  woman  into  the 
republic  of  letters  ;  and  experience  as  well  as  nature  tells  us,  "  what 
God  hath  joined,  let  not  man  put  asunder." 

I  welcome  woman,  therefore,  to  the  platform  of  the  world's  teach- 
ers, and  I  look  upon  the  world,  in  a  very  important  sense,  as  one 
great  school.  As  Humboklt  said, 'ten  years  ago,  "Governments, 
religion,  property,  books,  are  nothing  but  the  scaffolding  to  build  a 
man.  Earth  holds  up  to  her  master  no  fruit  but  the  finished  man." 
Education  is  the  only  interest  worthy  the  deep,  controlling  anxiety 
of  the  thoughtful  man.  To  change  Bryant  a  little,  — 

"  The  hills, 

Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, 
The  venerable  woods,  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green,  and  poured  round  all 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  school  of  man." 

It  is  in  this  light,  and  for  this  value,  that  I  appreciate  the  lyceum. 
We  have  four  sources  of  education  in  this  country  —  talk,  literature, 
government,  religion.  The  lyceum  makes  one  and  the  most  impor- 
tant element  of  each.  It  is  a  church  without  a  creed,  and  with  a 
constant  rotation  of  clergymen.  It  teaches  closer  ethics  than  the 
pulpit.  Let  lyceum  committees  debate  whether  they  shall  invite 
Theodore  Parker,  or  theological  papers  scold  because  Beecher  stands 
on  your  platform,  and  out  of  such  debate  the  people  will  pick  a  les- 
son of  toleration  better,  more  real,  and  more  impressive  than 
Locke's  Treatise,  or  a  dozen  sermons,  would  give  them.  Responsi- 
bility teaches  as  nothing  else  can.  That  is  God's  great  motor  power. 
When  your  horse  cannot  move  his  load,  throw  a  sack  of  grain  on  his 
back,  and  he  draws  easily  on.  He  draws  by  weight,  not  by  muscle. 
Give  the  masses  nothing  to  do,  and  they  will  topple  down  thrones 
and  cut  throats  ;  give  them*  the  government,  as  here,  and  they  will 
make  pulpits  useless  and  colleges  an  impertinence.  It  is  the  best 
part  of  literature,  too,  for  it  is  the  only  part  that  is  vital.  I  value  let- 
ters. I  thank  God  that  I  was  taught  for  many  years  —  enough  to 
see  inside  the  sham. 

The  upper  tier  of  letters  is  mere  amateur  —  does  not  understand 
its  own  business.  William  H.  Prescott  would  have  washed  his  hand 
twice  had  Walker,  the  filibuster,  grasped  it  unwittingly  ;  but  he  sits 
down  in  his  study  and  writes  the  history  of  filibusters,  respectable 


360  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

only  because  they  died  three  hundred  years  ago  !  He  did  not  know 
that  he  was  the  mere  annalist  of  the  Walkers  and  Jefferson  Davises 
of  that  age. 


THE  TEMPERANCE  QUESTION. 

SOME  men  look  upon  this  temperance  cause  as  whining  bigotry, 
narrow  asceticism,  or  a  vulgar  sentimentality,  fit  for  little  minds,  weak 
women,  and  weaker  men.  On  the  contrary,  I  regard  it  as  second 
only  to  one  or  two  others  of  the  primary  reforms  of  this  age,  and  for 
this  reason :.  Every  race  has  its  peculiar  temptation ;  every  clime 
has  its  specific  sin.  The  tropics  and  tropical  races  are  tempted  to 
one  form  of  sensuality  ;  the  colder  and  temperate  regions,  and  our 
Saxon  blood,  find  their  peculiar  temptation  in  the  stimulus  of  drink 
and  food.  In  old  times  our  heaven  was  a  drunken  revel.  We  relieve 
ourselves  from  the  over-weariness  of  constant  and  exhausting  toil 
by  intoxication.  Science  has  brought  a  cheap  means  of  drunkenness 
within  the  reach  of  every  individual.  National  prosperity  and  free 
institutions  have  put  into  the  hands  of  almost  every  workman  the 
means  of  being  drunk  for  a  week  on  the  labor  of  two  or  three  hours. 
With  that  blood  and  that  temptation,  we  have  adopted  democratic 
institutions,  where  the  law  has  no  sanctions  but  the  purpose  and 
virtue  of  the  masses.  The  statute-book  rests  not  on  bayonets,  as  in 
Europe,  but  on  the  hearts  of  the  people.  A  drunken  people  can 
never  be  the  basis  of  a  free  government.  It  is  the  corner-stone 
neither  of  virtue,  prosperity,  nor  progress.  To  us,  therefore,  the 
title-deeds  of  whose  estates  and  the  safety  of  whose  lives  depend 
upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  streets,  upon  the  virtue  of  the  masses, 
the  presence  of  any  vice  which  brutalizes  the  average  mass  of  man- 
kind, and  tends  to  make  it  more  readily  the  tool  of  intriguing  and 
corrupt  leaders,  is  necessarily  a  stab  at  the  very  life  of  the  nation. 
Against  such  a  vice  is  marshalled  the  Temperance  Reformation. 
That  my  sketch  is  no  fancy  picture  every  one  of  you  knows. 
Every  one  of  you  can  glance  back  over  your  own  path,  and  count 
many  and  many  a  one  among  those  who  started  from  the  goal  at 
your  side,  with  equal  energy  and  perhaps  greater  promise,  who  has 
found  a  drunkard's  grave  long  before  this.  The  brightness  of  the 
bar,  the  ornament  of  the  pulpit,  the  hope,  and  blessing,  and  stay  of 
many  a  family  —  you  know,  every  one  of  you  who  has  reached  mid- 
dle life,  how  often  on  your  path  you  set  up  the  warning,  "  Fallen 
before  the  temptations  of  the  streets  !  "  Hardly  one  house  in  this 


CHARLES    SUMNER.  361 

city,  whether  it  be  full  and  warm  with  all  the  luxury  of  wealth,  or 
whether  it  find  hard,  cold  maintenance  by  the  most  earnest  economy  ; 
no  matter  which  —  hardly  a  house  that  does  not  count  among  sons 
or  nephews  some  victim  of  this  vice.  The  skeleton  of  this  warning 
sits  at  every  board.  The  whole  world  is  kindred  in  this  suffering. 
The  country  mother  launches  her  boy  with  trembling  upon  the  temp- 
tations of  city  life  ;  the  father  trusts  his  daughter  anxiously  to  the 
young  man  she  has  chosen,  knowing  what  a  wreck  intoxication  may 
make  of  the  house-tree  they  set  up.  Alas  !  how  often  are  their 
worst  forebodings  more  than  fulfilled  !  I  have  known  a  case  — 
probably  many  of  you  recall  some  almost  equal  to  it  —  where  one 
worthy  woman  could  count  father,  brother,  husband,  and  son-in-law 
all  drunkards  —  no  man  among  her  near  kindred,  except  her  son, 
who  was  not  a  victim  of  this  vice.  Like  all  other  appetites,  this 
finds  resolution  weak  when  set  against  the  constant  presence  of 
temptation. 


CHARLES    SUMNER. 

Charles  Sumner  was  born  in  Boston,  January  6,  1811.  He  was  educated  in  the  Boston 
Latin  School,  and  at  Harvard  College,  where  he  received  his  degree  in  1830.  He  studied 
law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1834.  Although  he  was  successful  in  practice,  he  gave 
his  attention  more  to  the  theory  of  law,  and  soon  became  known  as  an  able  writer  on  legal 
subjecte.  He  was  for  three  years  reporter  of  the  Circuit  Court,  and  was  at  different  times 
lecturer  at  the  Cambridge  Law  School.  In  1845,  on  the  4th  of  July,  he  delivered  an  oration 
before  the  municipal  authorities  of  Boston,  on  the  True  Grandeur  of  Nations,  in  which  he 
denounced  the  impending  war  with  Mexico,  and  advocated  the  settlement  of  national  con- 
troversies by  arbitration.  Mr.  Sumner  was  originally  a  Whig,  but  he  was  led  by  the  course 
of  events  to  join  the  Free-soil  party.  In  1851  the  Democratic  and  Free-soil  parties  having 
formed  a  coalition  to  carry  the  state  election,  he  was,  after  a  long  and  animated  contest, 
chosen  United  States  senator  to  succeed  Daniel  Webster.  He  opposed  the  fugitive  slave 
bill  in  a  speech  in  which  he  announced  the  doctrine  that  "  freedom  is  national,  slavery 
sectional."  In  1856,  after  the  delivery  of  his  speech  entitled  The  Crime  against  Kansas, 
in  which  were  some  passages  that  were  highly  offensive  to  slaveholders,  he  was  assaulted, 
while  at  his  desk  in  the  Senate  chamber,  with  a  heavy  cane,  by  Preston  S.  Brooks,  of  South 
Carolina,  and  was  so  severely  injured  that  he  was  unable  to  perform  any  mental  labor  for 
some  years.  On  resuming  his  seat,  in  the  autumn  of  1859,  he  delivered  a  speech  that  was 
afterwards  printed  under  the  title  of  The  Barbarism  of  Slavery.  During  the  rebellion 
which  followed  the  election  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  he  advocated  the  emancipation  of  ths 
slaves  as  the  most  effective  mode  of  ending  the  contest.  For  many  years  he  has  been  a 
leading  member  of  the  Senate.  In  1861  he  was  made  chairman  of  the  committee  on  foreign 
relations,  which  position  he  held  until  1870,  when  he  was  displaced  on  account  of  not  agree- 
ing with  his  political  associates  in  the  support  of  President  Grant. 

Mr.  Sumner's  orations  and  speeches,  taken  in  their  order,  might  almost  form  a  history  of 
the  anti-slavery  movement  in  its  connection  with  national  politics.  He  has  always  insisted 
that  the  recent  amendments  are  but  the  legitimate  development  of  the  original  doctrines  of 
the  Constitution. 


362  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Mr.  Sumner  is  distinguished  for  his  learning,  especially  in  history  and  public  law.  In  his 
efforts  on  great  occasions  his  citations  of  authorities  are  absolutely  bewildering.  His  mind 
is  comprehensive  and  logical,  his  methods  direct  and  forcible,  his  spirit  vehement  and  in- 
domitable. As  he  moves  on  he  leaves  no  point  untouched,  no  matter  how  trite  or  familiar  it 
may  be.  There  are  no  gaps  in  his  sentences,  and  no  ellipses  in  his  thought.  He  leaves 
nothing  for  the  imagination.  Proposition  is  riveted  to  proposition  until  the  whole  statement 
is  like  a  piece  of  plate  armor.  But  this  scrupulous  gathering  up  of  details,  and  the  copious- 
ness of  illustration  by  historical  parallels,  though  effective  with  audiences  and  useful  for 
popular  instruction,  often  render  portions  of  his  speeches,  when  printed,  tedious  to  cul- 
tivated readers,  who  are  oppressed  by  the  amplifications,  the  repetitions,  and  the  profusion 
of  learned  quotations  with  which  the  argument  is  loaded.  The  field  he  has  passed  over  is 
sure  to  be  thoroughly  swept.  The  audiences  who  listen,  whether  friendly  or  otherwise,  are 
always  profoundly  impressed  with  his  power  and  sincerity.  The  antagonist  who  follows  him 
has  always  a  task  demanding  his  best  efforts. 

His  style  has  unconsciously  acquired  a  certain  professional  or  state-paper  tone.  We  see  by 
the  formal  and  stately  manner  that  it  is  the  statesman  and  the  author  of  didactic  treatises  that 
is  writing.  The  elevation  of  his  thought  is  a  moral  elevation.  As  we  read  we  seem  to  be 
on  high  ground,  and  breathe  pure  mountain  air.  There  is  no  compromise  with  wrong,  no 
paltering  with  worldly  policy.  Poetical  discussions  conducted  in  such  a  spirit  rise  to  the 
dignity  of  pure  ethics,  and  are  as  inspiring  as  they  are  impressive.  Much  of  the  effect  of 
Mr.  Sumner's  speeches  is  due  to  this  pervading  moral  element.  He  is  not  greatly  imagina- 
tive, and  his  ample  utterances,  unlike  the  copious  and  glowing  diction  of  Burke,  appear  to 
be  the  results  of  painstaking  industry. 

Mr.  Sumner  has  an  enviable  distinction  in  what  we  must  consider  a  corrupt  age  ;  he  is  so 
noted  for  inflexible  honesty  that  no  one  ever  ventures  to  suggest  that  he  has  an  interested 
motive  for  his  conduct.  In  person  he  is  very  tall,  and  wears  a  look  of  dignity  and  conscious 
power.  He  speaks  with  great  energy,  but  has  not  a  very  melodious  voice  nor  graceful  man- 
ner. There  are  few  in  this  generation  that  will  leave  behind  a  more  exalted  reputation  for 
the  qualities  that  constitute  a  great  and  good  man. 

His  works,  in  several  volumes,  8vo.,  with  portrait,  are  published  by  Lee  &  Shepard, 
Boston.  « 

[From  an  Oration  on  the  True  Grandeur  of  Nations.] 

AND  now,  if  it  be  asked  why,  in  considering  the  true  grandeur  of 
nations,  I  dwell  thus  singly  and  exclusively  on  war,  it  is  because 
war  is  utterly  and  irreconcilably  inconsistent  with  true  greatness. 
Thus  far,  man  has  worshipped  in  military  glory  a  phantom  idol, 
compared  with  which  the  colossal  images  of  ancient  Babylon  or 
modern  Hindostan  are  but  toys  ;  and  we,  in  this  favored  land  of 
freedom,  in  this  blessed  day  of  light,  are  among  the  idolaters.  The 
Heaven-descended  injunction,  Know  thyself,  still  speaks  to  an  un- 
heeding world  from  the  far-off  letters  of  gold  at  Delphi :  Know  thy- 
self; know  that  the  moral  is  the  noblest  part  of  man,  transcending  far 
that  which  is  the  seat  of  passion,  strife,  and  war  —  nobler  than  the 
intellect  itself.  And  the  human  heart,  in  its  untutored,  spontaneous 
homage  to  the  virtues  of  peace,  declares  the  same  truth  — admonish- 
ing the  military  idolater  that  it  is  not  the  bloody  combats,  even  of 
the  bravest  chiefs,  even  of  gods  themselves,  as  they  echo  from  the 
resounding  lines  of  the  great  poet  of  war,  which  receive  the  warmest 


CHARLES    SUMNER.  363 

admiration,  but  those  two  scenes  where  are  painted  the  gentle,  un- 
warlike  affections  of  our  nature,  the  Parting  of  Hector  from  An- 
dromache, and  the  Supplication  of  Priam.  In  the  definitive  election 
of  these  peaceful  pictures,  the  soul  of  man,  inspired  by  a  better 
wisdom  than  that  of  books,  and  drawn  unconsciously  by  the  heaven- 
ly attraction  of  what  is  truly  great,  acknowledges,  in  touching 
instances,  the  vanity  of  military  glory.  The  beatitudes  of  Christ, 
which  shrink  from  saying,  "  Blessed  are  the  war-makers,"  inculcate 
the  same  lesson.  Reason  affirms  and  repeats  what  the  heart  has 
prompted  and  Christianity  proclaimed.  Suppose  war  decided  by 
force,  where  is  the  glory  ?  Suppose  it  decided  by  chance,  where  is 
the  glory?  Surely,  in  other  ways  true  greatness  lies.  Nor  is  it 
difficult  to  tell  where. 

True  greatness  consists  in  imitating,  as  nearly  as  possible  for 
finite  man,  the  perfections  of  an  infinite  Creator  —  above  all,  in 
cultivating  those  highest  perfections,  Justice  and  Love  :  justice,  which, 
like  that  of  St.  Louis,  does  not  swerve  to  the  right  hand  or  to  the 
left ;  love,  which,  like  that  of  William  Penn,  regards  all  mankind  as  of 
kin.  "  God  is  angry,"  says  Plato,  "  when  any  one  censures  a  man  like 
himself,  or  praises  a  man  of  an  opposite  character;  and  the  godlike 
man  is  the  good  man."  Again,  in  another  of  those  lovely  dialogues, 
precious  with  immortal  truth,  "  Nothing  resembles  God  more  than 
that  man  among  us  who  has  attained  to  the  highest  degree  of 
justice."  The  true  greatness  of  nations  is  in  those  qualities  which 
constitute  the  true  greatness  of  the  individual.  It  is  not  in  extent 
of  territory,  or  vastness  of  population,  or  accumulation  of  wealth  ; 
not  in  fortifications,  or  armies,  or  navies  ;  not  in  the  sulphurous 
blaze  of  battle  ;  not  in  Golgothas,  though  covered  by  monuments 
that  kiss  the  clouds  —  for  all  these  are  creatures  and  representatives 
of  those  qualities  in  our  nature  which  are  unlike  anything  in  God's 
nature.  Nor  is  it  in  triumphs  of  the  intellect  alone  —  in  literature, 
learning,  science,  or  art.  The  polished  Greeks,  our  masters  in  the 
delights  of  art,  and  the  commanding  Romans,  overawing  the  earth 
with  their  power,  were  little  more  than  splendid  savages.  And 
the  age  of  Louis  XIV.,  of  France,  spanning  so  long  a  period  of 
ordinary  worldly  magnificence,  thronged  by  marshals  bending  under 
military  laurels,  enlivened  by  the  unsurpassed  comedy  of  Molicre, 
dignified  by  the  tragic  genius  of  Corneille,  illumined  by  the  splendors 
of  Bossuet,  is  degraded  by  immoralities  that  cannot  be  mentioned 
without  a  blush,  by  a  heartlessness  in  comparison  with  which  the 
ice  of  Nova  Zembla  is  warm,  and  by  a  succession  of  deeds  of  in- 


364  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

justice  not  to  be  washed  out  by  the  tears  of  all  the  recording  angels 
of  heaven. 

The  true  greatness  of  a  nation  cannot  be  in  triumphs  of  the  intel- 
lect alone.  Literature  and  art  may  enlarge  the  sphere  of  its  in- 
fluence ;  they  may  adorn  it ;  but  in  their  nature  they  are  but 
accessaries.  The  true  grandeur  of  humanity  is  in  moral  eleva- 
tion, sustained,  enlightened,  and  decorated  by  the  intellect  of  man. 
The  surest  tokens  of  this  grandeur  in  a  nation  are  that  Christian 
beneficence  which  diffuses  the  greatest  happiness  among  all,  and  that 
passionless,  godlike  justice  which  controls  the  relations  of  the 
nation  to  other  nations,  and  to  all  the  people  committed  to  its 
charge.  .  .  . 

Far  be  from  us,  fellow- citizens,  on  this  festival,  the  pride  of  national 
victory,  and  the  illusion  of  national  freedom,  in  which  we  are  too 
prone  to  indulge  !  None  of  you  make  rude  boast  of  individual 
prosperity  or  prowess.  And  here  I  end  as  I  began.  Our  country 
cannot  do  what  an  individual  cannot  do.  Therefore  it  must  not 
vaunt  or  be  puffed  up.  Rather  bend  to  unperformed  duties.  Inde- 
pendence is  not  all.  We  have  but  half  done,  when  we  have  made 
ourselves  free.  The  scornful  taunt  wrung  from  bitter  experience  of 
the  great  revolution  in  France  must  not  be  levelled  at  us  :  "  They 
wish  to  be  free,  but  know  not  how  to  be  just"  Nor  is  priceless 
freedom  an  end  in  itself,  but  rather  the  means  of  justice  and  benef- 
icence, where  alone  is  enduring  concord,  with  that  attendant  happi- 
ness which  is  the  final  end  and  aim  of  nations,  as  of  every  human 
heart.  It  is  not  enough  to  be  free.  There  must  be  peace  which 
cannot  fail,  and  other  nations  must  share  the  great 'possession.  To 
this  end  must  we  labor,  bearing  ever  in  mind  two  special  objects, 
complements  of  each  other  :  first,  the  arbitrament  of  war  must  end  ; 
and  secondly,  disarmament  must  begin.  With  this  ending  and  this 
beginning  the  great  gates  of  the  future  will  be  opened,  and  the 
guardian  virtues  will  assert  a  new  empire.  Alas  !  until  this  is  done, 
national  honor  and  national  glory  will  yet  longer  flaunt  in  blood,  and 
there  can  be  no  true  grandeur  of  nations. 

To  this  great  work  let  me  summon  you.  That  future,  which 
filled  the  lofty  vision  of  sages  and  bards  in  Greece  and  Rome,  which 
was  foretold  by  prophets  and  heralded  by  evangelists,  when  man,  in 
happy  isles,  or  in  a  new  paradise,  shall  confess  the  loveliness  of 
peace,  may  you  secure,  if  not  for  yourselves,  at  least  for  your  chil- 
dren !  Believe  that  you  can  do  it,  and  you  can  do  it.  The  true 
golden  age  is  before,  not  behind.  If  man  has  once  been  driven 


CHARLES   SUMNER.  365 

from  paradise,  while  an  angel  with  a  flaming  sword  forbade  his 
return,  there  is  another  paradise,  even  on  earth,  which  he  may 
make  for  himself,  by  the  cultivation  of  knowledge,  religion,  and  the 
kindly  virtues  of  life  —  where  the  confusion  of  tongues  shall  be  dis- 
solved in  the  union  of  hearts,  and  joyous  nature,  borrowing  prolific 
charms  from  prevailing  harmony,  shall  spread  her  lap  with  un- 
imagined  bounty,  and  there  shall  be  perpetual  jocund  spring,  and 
sweet  strains  borne  on  "the  odoriferous  wing  of  gentle  gales," 
through  valleys  of  delight  more  pleasant  than  the  vale  of  Tempe, 
richer  than  the  garden  of  the  Hesperides,  with  no  dragon  to  guard 
its  golden  fruit. 

Is  it  said  that  the  age  does  not  demand  this  work  ?  The  robber 
conqueror  of  the  past,  from  fiery  sepulchre,  demands  it ;  the  precious 
blood  of  millions  unjustly  shed  in  war,  crying  from  the  ground, 
demands  it ;  the  heart  of  the  good  man  demands  it ;  the  conscience, 
even  of  the  soldier,  whispers,  "  Peace."  There  are  considerations 
springing  from  our  situation  and  condition  which  fervently  invite  us 
to  take  the  lead.  Here  should  join  the  patriotic  ardor  of  the  land, 
the  ambition  of  the  statesman,  the  effort  of  the  scholar,  the  per- 
vasive influence  of  the  press,  the  mild  persuasion  of  the  sanctuary, 
the  early  teaching  of  the  school.  Here,  in  ampler  ether  and  diviner 
air,  are  untried  fields  for  exalted  triumph,  more  truly  worthy  the 
American  name  than  any  snatched  from  rivers  of  blood.  War  is 
known  as  the  last  reason  of  kings.  Let  it  be  no  reason  of  our 
republic.  Let  us  renounce  and  throw  off  forever  the  yoke  of 
a  tyranny  most  oppressive  of  all  in  the  world's  annals.  As  those 
standing  on  the  mountain-top  first  discern  the  coming  beams  of 
morning,  so  may  we,  from  the  vantage-ground  of  liberal  institutions, 
first  recognize  the  ascending  sun  of  a  new  era !  Lift  high  the  gates, 
and  let  the  King  of  Glory  in,  —  the  King  of  true  Glory,  —  of  Peace  !  I 
catch  the  last  words  of  music  from  the  lips  of  innocence  and  beauty,  — 

"And  let  the  whole  earth  be  filled  with  his  glory." 

It  is  a  beautiful  picture  in  Grecian  story,  that  there  was  at  least  one 
spot,  the  small  island  of  Delos,  dedicated  to  the  gods,  and  kept  at  all 
times  sacred  from  war.  No  hostile  foot  ever  pressed  this  kindly 
soil,  and  citizens  of  all  countries  met  here,  in  common  worship, 
beneath  the  aegis  of  inviolable  peace.  So  let  us  dedicate  our  beloved 
country ;  and  may  the  blessed  consecration  be  felt  in  all  its  parts, 
everywhere  throughout  its  ample  domains  !  The  Temple  of  Honor 
shall  be  enclosed  by  the  Temple  of  Concord,  that  it  may  never  more 


366  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

be  entered  through  any  portal  of  war  ;  the  horn  of  abundance  shall 
overflow  at  its  gates  ;  the  angel  of  religion  shall  be  the  guide  over 
its  steps  of  flashing  adamant ;  while  within  its  happy  courts,  purged 
of  Violence  and  Wrong,  Justice,  returned  to  the  earth  from  long  exile 
in  the  skies,  with  equal  scales  for  nations  as  for  men,  shall  rear  her 
serene  and  majestic  front ;  and  by  her  side,  greatest  of  all,  Charity, 
sublime  in  meekness,  hoping  all  and  enduring  all,  shall  divinely 
temper  every  righteous  decree,  and  with  words  of  infinite  cheer 
inspire  to  those  deeds  that  cannot  vanish  away.  And  the  future  chief 
of  the  republic,  destined  to  uphold  the  glories  of  a  new  era,  unspotted 
by  human  blood,  shall  be  first  in  peace,  first  in  the  hearts  of  his 
countrymen. 

While  seeking  these  fruitful  glories  for  ourselves,  let  us  strive  for 
their  extension  to  other  lands.  Let  the  bugles  sound  the  Truce  of 
God  to  the  whole  world  forever.  Not  to  one  people,  but  to  every 
people,  let  the  glad  tidings  go.  The  selfish  boast  of  the  Spartan 
women,  that  they  never  saw  the  smoke  of  an  enemy's  camp,  must 
become  the  universal  chorus  of  mankind,  while  the  iron  belt  of  War, 
now  encompassing  the  globe,  is  exchanged  for  the  golden  cestus  of 
Peace,  clothing  all  with  celestial  beauty.  History  dwells  with  fond- 
ness on  the  reverent  homage  bestowed  by  massacring  soldiers  upon 
the  spot  occupied  by  the  sepulchre  of  the  Lord.  Vain  man  !  why 
confine  regard  to  a  few  feet  of  sacred  mould  ?  The  whole  earth  is 
the  sepulchre  of  the  Lord  ;  nor  can  any  righteous  man  profane 
any  part  thereof.  Confessing  this  truth,-  let  us  now,  on  this  Sabbath 
of  the  Nation,  lay  a  new  and  living  stone  in  the  grand  Temple  of 
Universal  Peace,  whose  dome  shall  be  lofty  as  the  firmament  of 
heaven,  broad  and  comprehensive  as  earth  itself. 


JOHN   WILLIAM   DRAPER. 

John  William  Draper  was  born  in  Liverpool,  England,  May  5,  iSn,  and  was  educated 
at  London  University.  He  came  to  the  United  States  in  1833,  and  pursued  his  studies  in 
chemistry  and  medicine  at  the  Univei-sity  of  Pennsylvania.  He  was  professor  at  Hampden 
and  Sidney  College  from  1836  to  1839,  and  afterwards  at  the  University  of  New  York  —  first 
in  the  academical  and  then  in  the  medical  department.  Dr.  Draper  is  a  man  of  great  learn- 
ing, and  has  written  many  able  scientific  works.  Among  them  are  treatises  on  the  Organi- 
zation of  Plants  (1844),  Chemistry  (1846),  Natural  Philosophy  (1847),  Human  Physiology 
(1856.)  But  he  has  not  confined  his  studies  to  the  sciences.  He  has  aspired  to  co-ordinate 
the  results  of  all  modern  learning  into  a  broad  philosophical  view  of  the  progress  of  man- 
kind. This  is  the  theme  of  his  principal  work,  the  History  of  the  Intellectual  Development 
of  Europe.  It  may  be  likened,  in  a  measure,  to  Buckle's  History  of  Civilization,  and  to 


JOHN    WILLIAM    DRAPER.  367 

the  recent  works  of  Lecky  ;  but  the  author  Ins  made  an  original  plan,  and  has  developed 
his  own  ideas  in  the  view  of  the  world's  history.  His  stvle  is  sententious  and  dignified  ; 
his  works  will  be  read  for  their  ideas,  and  will  command  respect  from  all  thoughtful 
men.  He  has  written  a  History  of  the  American  Civil  War,  three  vols.,  8vo. ;  also 
Thoughts  on  the  Future  Civil  Policy  of  America,  in  one  vol.,  8vo.,  Harper  &  Brothers, 
New  York. 

[From  History  of  the  Intellectual  Development  of  Europe.] 

NATIONS  AS  WELL  AS  MEN  MORTAL. 

Too  commonly  do  we  beliftve  that  the  affairs  of  men  are  deter- 
mined by  a  spontaneous  action  or  free  will  ;  we  keep  that  overpow- 
ering influence  which  really  controls  them  in  the  background.  In 
individual  life  we  also  accept  a  like  deception,  living  in  the  belief  that 
everything  we  do  is  determined  by  the  volition  of  ourselves  or  of 
those  around  us  ;  nor  is  it  until  the  close  of  our  days  that  we  discern 
how  great  is  the  illusion,  and  that  we  have  been  swimming,  playing, 
and  struggling  in  a  stream  which,  in  spite  of  all  our  voluntary 
motions,  has  silently  and  resistlessly  borne  us  to  a  predetermined 
shore.  .  .  . 

Nations,  like  individuals,  die.  Their  birth  presents  an  ethnical 
element  ;  their  death,  which  is  the  most  solemn  event  that  we  can 
contemplate,  may  arise  from  interior  or  from  external  causes.  Em- 
pires are  only  sand-hills  in  the  hour-glass  of  Time  ;  they  crumble 
spontaneously  away  by  the  process  of  their  own  growth. 

A  nation,  like  a  man,  hides  from  itself  the  contemplation  of  its 
final  day.  It  occupies  itself  with  expedients  for  prolonging  its 
present  state.  It  frames  laws  and  constitutions  under  the  delusion 
that  they  will  last,  forgetting  that  the  condition  of  life  is  change. 
Very  able  modern  statesmen  consider  it  to  be  the  grand  object  of 
their  art  to  keep  things  as  they  are,  or  rather  as  they  were.  But  the 
human  race  is  not  at  rest ;  and  bands  with  which,  for  a  moment,  it 
may  be  restrained,  break  all  the  more  violently  the  longer  they  hold. 
No  man  can  stop  the  march  of  destiny. 

Time,  to  the  nation  as  to  the  individual,  is  nothing  absolute  ;  its 
duration  depends  on  the  rate  of  thought  and  feeling.  For  the  same 
reason  that  to  the  child  the  year  is  actually  longer  than  to  the  adult, 
the  life  of  a  nation  may  be  said  to  be  no  longer  than  the  life  of  a 
person,  considering  the  manner  in  which  its  affairs  are  moving. 
There  is  a  variable  velocity  of  existence,  though  the  lapses  of  time, 
may  be  equable. 

The  origin,  existence,  and  death  of  nations  depend  thus  on  phys- 
ical influence,  which  are  themselves  the  result  of  immutable  laws. 
Nations  are  only  transitional  forms  of  humanity.  They  must  tin- 


368       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

dergo  obliteration  as  do  the  transitional  forms  offered  by  the  animal 
series.  There  is  no  more  an  immortality  for  them  than  there  is  an 
immobility  for  an  embryo  in  any  one  of  the  manifold  forms  passed 
through  in  its  progress  of  development. 

The  life  of  a  nation  thus  flows  in  a  regular  sequence,  determined 
by  invariable  law ;  and  hence,  in  estimating  different  nations,  we 
must  not  be  deceived  by  the  casual  aspect  they  present.  The  phil- 
osophical comparison  is  made  by  considering  their  entire  manner 
of  career  or  cycle  of  progress,  and  not  their  momentary  or  transitory 
state.  Though  they  may  encounter  disaster,  their  absolute  course 
can  never  be  retrograde  ;  it  is  always  onward,  even  if  tending  to 
dissolution.  It  is  as  with  the  individual,  who  is  equally  advancing 
in  infancy,  in  maturity,  in  old  age.  Pascal  was  more  than  justified 
,in  his  assertion,  that  "  the  entire  succession  of  men,  through  the 
whole  course  of  ages,  must  be  regarded  as  one  man,  always  living 
and  incessantly  learning." 

THE  LIMITS   OF  FREE   WILL. 

HE  who  is  immersed  in  the  turmoil  of  a  crowded  city  sees  nothing 
but  the  acts  of  men,  and,  if  he  formed  his  opinion  from  his  experi- 
ence alone,  must  conclude  that  the  course  of  events  altogether 
depends  on  the  uncertainties  of  human  volition.  But  he  who 
ascends  to  a  sufficient  elevation  loses  sight  of  the  passing  con- 
flicts, and  no  longer  hears  the  contentions.  He  discovers  that 
the  importance  of  individual  action  is  diminishing,  as  the  pano- 
rama beneath  him  is  extending.  And  if  he  could  attain  to  the 
truly  philosophical,  the  general  point  of  view,  disengaging  himself 
from  all  terrestrial  influences  and  entanglements,  rising  high 
enough  to  see  the  whole  globe  at  a  glance,  his  acutest  vision 
would  fail  to  discover  the  slightest  indication  of  man,  his  free- 
will, or  his  works.  In  her  resistless,  onward  sweep,  in  the  clock- 
like  precision  of  her  daily  and  nightly  revolution,  in  the  well- 
known  pictured  forms  of  her  continents  and  seas,  now  no  longer 
dark  and  doubtful,  but  shedding  forth  a  planetary  light,  well  might 
he  ask  what  had  become  of  all  the  aspirations  and  anxieties,  the 
pleasures  and  agony,  of  life.  As  the  voluntary  vanished  from  his 
sight,  and  the  irresistible  remained,  and  each  moment  became 
more  and  more  distinct,  well  might  he  incline  to  disbelieve  his 
own  experience,  and  to  question  whether  the  seat  of  so  much 
undying  glory  could  be  the  place  of  so  much  human  uncertainty  ; 
whether  beneath  the  vastness,  energy,  and  immutable  course  of  a 


HARRIET    ELIZABETH    BEECHER    STOWE.  369 

moving  world,  there  lay  concealed  the  feebleness  and  imbecility 
of  man.  Yet  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  these  contradictory 
conditions  co-exist — Free-will  and  Fate,  Uncertainty  and  Des- 
tiny, and  all  are  watched  by  the  sleepless  eye  of  Providence.  It 
is  only  the  point  of  view  that  has  changed  ;  but  on  that  how  much 
has  depended  !  A  little  nearer  we  gather  the  successive  ascertain- 
ments of  human  inquiry,  a  little  farther  off  we  realize  the  pano- 
ramic vision  of  the  Deity.  Well  has  -  a  Hindu  philosopher  re- 
marked, that  he  who  stands  by  the  bank  of  a  flowing  stream  sees, 
in  their  order,  the  various  parts  as  they  successively  glide  by,  but 
he  who  is  placed  on  an  exalted  station  views,  at  a  glance,  the 
whole  as  a  motionless,  silvery  thread  among  the  fields.  To  the 
one  there  is  the  accumulating  experience  and  knowledge  of  man 
in  time,  to  the  other  there  is  the  instantaneous  and  unsuccessive 
knowledge  of  God. 


HARRIET   ELIZABETH   BEECHER   STOWE. 

Harriet  Elizabeth  Beecher  Stowe,  daughter  of  Dr.  Lyman  Beecher,  a  distinguished 
gyman,  was  born  in  Litchfield,  Conn.,  June  15,  1812.  She  removed  to  Cincinnati  with  htr 
father  in  1833,  where  she  was  married,  in  1836,  to  the  Rev.  Calvin  E.  Stowe,  afterwards 
professor  at  Bowdoin  College  and  at  Andover  Theological  School. 

She  wrote  several  stories  and  sketches  for  the  Cincinnati  Gazette  and  other  periodicals, 
which  were  afterwards  collected  in  a  volume  entitled  The  Mayflower.  In  1851  she  began 
the  story  of  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  in  weekly  chapters,  in  a  newspaper  published  in  Washing- 
ton, called  the  National  Era.  On  its  completion  it  appeared,  in  two  volumes,  i2mo.,  in 
Boston.  Its  success  was  without  a  parallel  in  the  literature  of  any  age.  Near  half  a  mil- 
lion copies  were  sold  in  this  country,  and  a  considerably  larger  number  in  England.  It  was 
translated  into  every  language  of  Europe,  and  into  Arabic  and  Armenian.  It  was  drama- 
tized and  acted  in  nearly  every  theatre  in  the  world.  The  Key  to  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin 
appeared  in  1853.  The  same  year  she  visited  Europe,  and  was  received  with  gratifying 
attention.  On  her  return  she  published  Sunny  Memories  of  Foreign  Lands,  two  volumes, 
i2mo.  Drcd,  a  Tale  of  the  Great  Dismal  Swamp,  was  published  in  1856.  This  work  pro- 
duced but  a  slight  impression,  probably  because  the  chirm  of  novelty  in  the  subject  was 
wanting.  The  character  of  Dred  himself  is  more  grand  and  picturesque  than  Uncle  Tom. 
The  Minister's  Wooing  appeared  first  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  as  a  serial,  and  was  pub- 
lished in  book  form  in  1859.  We  think  this  the  most  delightful  of  her  stories.  The  scene 
i-;  laid  in  Newport,  in  the  last  century,  and  the  characters  (excepting  Aaron  Burr,  whom 
the  author,  very  properly,  does  not  know  much  about)  are  among  her  finest  creations. 
Agnes  of  Sorrento  and  The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island  were  published  in  1*62  :  House  and 
Home  Papers  in  1864 ;  The  Chimney  Corner,  a  series  in  the  Atlantic,  in  1865  ;  Little  Foxes 
in  1865  ;  Queer  Little  People  in  1867  ;  Oldtown  Folks  in  i%)  ;  Pink  and  White  Tyranny  in 
1871  ;  and  My  Wife  and  I  in  18721  She  also  printed  the  True  Story  of  Lady  Byron's  Life, 
which  was  probably  not  true,  and,  in  any  case,  should  not  have  been  told. 

It  will  be  seen  that  Mrs.  Stowe  has  been  a  very  prolific  writer,  and,  although  her  fame 
will  rest  upon  her  first  great  book,  all  of  her  novels  have  some  admirable  qualities,  and  sev- 
24 


3/O       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

eral  of  them  have  enough  merit  in  themselves  to  have  given  her  a  place  among  our  first 
authors  of  fiction.  She  is  a  novelist  of  rare  and  original  genius.  She  is  indebted  to  no 
special  culture  and  to  no  careful  practice  for  her  effects.  In  attention  to  the  niceties 
of  the  language  she  is  surpassed  by  many  writers  of  an  inferior  rank.  Her  descrip- 
tions of  persons  and  of  scenes  are  like  the  etchings  of  the  old  painters ;  the  method  is 
full  of  details,  and  the  process  could  not  be  imparted,  but  at  due  distance  the  effect  is  magi- 
cal, the  cartoon  priceless  and  imperishable. 

Probably  our  great  national  struggle,  then  impending  (although  we  did  not  know  it),  in- 
tensified the  public  interest  in  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  and  its  momentous  lessons  ;  but  it  is  a 
great  story  still.  The  characters  are  powerfully  drawn,  and  the  plot  is  constructed  with 
skill.  The  figures  of  the  prim  Miss  Ophelia,  the  indescribable  Aunt  Dinah,  and  of  the 
great  souled  Uncle  Tom  are  masterpieces  in  fiction.  The  future  historian  of  the  United 
States,  in  mentioning  the  causes  that  led  to  the  overthrow  of  slavery,  must  give  much  of 
the  credit  to  the  author  of  the  drama  in  which  the  results  of  the  system  were  exhibited  to 
the  world. 

Professor  Stowe  resigned  his  chair  at  Andover  some  years  since,  and  now,  with  his  wife 
and  daughters,  resides  during  a  part  of  the  year  in  Florida. 

[From  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.] 
UNCLE   TOM   READS   HIS   TESTAMENT. 

Is  it  strange,  then,  that  some  tears  fall  on  the  pages  of  his  Bible 
as  he  lays  it  on  the  cotton-bale,  and,  with  patient  finger  threading 
his  slow  way  from  word  to  word,  traces  out  its  promises  ?  Hav- 
ing learned  late  in  life,  Tom  was  but  a  slow  reader,  and  passed  on 
laboriously  from  verse  to  verse.  Fortunate  for  him  was  it  that  the 
book  he  was  intent  on  was  one  which  slow  reading  cannot  injure  — 
nay,  one  whose  words,  like  ingots  of  gold,  seem  often  to  need  to 
be  weighed  separately,  that  the  mind  may  take  in  their  priceless 
value.  Let  us  follow  him  a  moment,  as,  pointing  to  each  word, 
and  pronouncing  each  half  aloud,  he  reads,  — 

"  Let  —  not  —  your  —  heart  —  be  —  troubled.  In  —  my  —  Father's 
—  house  —  are  —  many  —  mansions.  I  —  go  —  to  —  prepare  —  a  — 
place  —  for  —  you." 

Cicero,  when  he  buried  his  darling  and  only  daughter,  had  a  heart 
as  full  of  honest  grief  as  poor  Tom's,  —  perhaps  no  fuller,  for  both 
were  only  men  ;  but  Cicero  could  pause  over  no  such  sublime 
words  of  hope,  and  look  to  no  such  future  reunion  ;  and  if  he  had 
seen  them,  ten  to  one  he  would  not  have  believed, — he  must  fill 
his  head  first  with  a  thousand  questions  of  authenticity  of  manu- 
script, and  correctness  of  translation.  But,  to  poor  Tom,  there  it 
lay,  just  what  he  needed,  so  evidently  true  and  divine  that  the  pos- 
sibility of  a  question  never  entered  his  simple  head.  It  must  be 
true,  for,  if  not  true,  how  could  he  live  ? 

As  for  Tom's  Bible,  though  it  had  no  annotations  and  helps  in 


HARRIET   ELIZABETH    BEECHER    STOWE. 

margin  from  learned  commentators,  still  it  had  been  embellished 
with  certain  way-marks  and  guide-boards  of  Tom's  own  invention, 
and  which  helped  liim  more  than  the  most  learned  expositions  could 
have  done.  It  had  been  his  custom  to  get  the  Bible  read  to  him 
by  his  master's  children,  in  particular  by  young  Master  George  ;  and 
as  they  read,  he  would  designate,  by  bold,  strong  marks  and  dashes, 
with  pen  and  ink,  the  passages  which  more  particularly  gratified 
his  ear  or  affected  his  heart.  His  Bible  was  thus  marked  through, 
from  one  end  to  the  other,  with  a  variety  of  styles  and  designations  ; 
so  he  could  in  a  moment  seize  upon  his  favorite  passages,  without 
the  labor  of  spelling  out  what  lay  between  them  ;  and  while  it  lay 
there  before  him,  every  passage  breathing  of  some  old  home  scene, 
and  recalling  some  past  enjoyment,  his  Bible  seemed  to  him  all  of 
this  life  that  remained,  as  well  as  the  promise  of  a  future  one. 


LITTLE  EVA. 

HER  form  was  the  perfection  of  childish  beauty,  without  its  usual 
chubbiness  and  squareness  of  outline.  There  was  about  it  an  undu- 
lating and  aerial  grace  such  as  one  might  dream  of  for  some  mythic 
and  allegorical  being.  Her  face  was  remarkable,  less  for  its  perfect 
beauty  of  feature  than  for  a  singular  and  dreamy  earnestness  of 
expression,  which  made  the  ideal  start  when  they  looked  at  her,  and 
by  which  the  dullest  and  most  literal  were  impressed,  without 
exactly  knowing  why.  The  shape  of  her  head  and  the  turn  of  her 
neck  and  bust  were  peculiarly  noble,  and  the  long,  golden-brown  hair 
that  floated  like  a  cloud  around  it,  the  deep,  spiritual  gravity  of  her 
violet  blue  eyes,  shaded  by  heavy  fringes  of  golden  brown, — all 
marked  her  out  from  other  children,  and  made  every  one  turn  and 
look  after  her,  as  she  glided  hither  and  thither  on  the  boat.  Never- 
theless, the  little  one  was  not  what  you  would  have  called  either  a 
grave  child  or  a  -sad  one.  On  the  contrary,  an  airy  and  innocent 
playfulness  seemed  to  flicker  like  the  shadow  of  summer  leaves  over 
her  childish  face,  and  around  her  buoyant  figure.  She  was  always 
in  motion,  always  with  half  a  smile  on  her  rosy  mouth,  flying  hither 
and  thither,  with  an  undulating  and  cloud-like  tread,  singing  to  her- 
self as  she  moved  as  in  a  happy  dream.  Her  father  and  female 
guardian  were  incessantly  busy  in  pursuit  of  her  —  but,  when  caught, 
she  melted  from  them  again  like  a  summer  cloud  ;  and  as  no  word 
of  chiding  or  reproof  ever  fell  on  her  ear  for  whatever  she  chose  to 


3/2  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

do,  she  pursued  her  own  way  all  over  the  boat.  Always  dressed  in 
white,  she  seemed  to  move  like  a  shadow  through  all  sorts  of  places, 
without  contracting  spot  or  stain  ;  and  there  was  not  a  corner  or 
nook,  above  or  below,  where  those  fairy  footsteps  had  not  glided, 
and  that  visionary  golden  head,  with  its  deep  blue  eyes,  fleeted 
along. 

The  fireman,  as  he  looked  up  from  his  sweaty  toil,  sometimes 
found  those  eyes  looking  wonderingly  into  the  raging  depths  of  the 
furnace,  and  fearfully  and  pityingly  at  him,  as  if  she  thought  him  in 
some  dreadful  danger.  Anon  the  steersman  at  the  wheel  paused 
and  smiled,  as  the  picture-like  head  gleamed  through  the  window  of 
the  round  house,  and  in  a  moment  was  gone  again.  A  thousand 
times  a  day  rough  voices  blessed  her,  and  smiles  of  unwonted  soft- 
ness stole  over  hard  faces  as  she  passed  ;  and  when  she  tripped 
fearlessly  over  dangerous  places,  rough,  sooty  hands  were  stretched 
involuntarily  out  to  save  her,  and  smooth  her  path. 

Tom,  who  had  the  soft,  impressible  nature  of  his  kindly  race,  ever 
yearning  towards  the  simple  and  child-like,  watched  the  little  crea- 
ture with  daily  increasing  interest.  To  him  she  seemed  some- 
thing almost  divine  ;  and  whenever  her  golden  head  and  deep  blue 
eyes  peered  out  upon  him  from  behind  some  dusky  cotton-bale,  or 
looked  down  upon  him  over  some  ridge  of  packages,  he  half  believed 
he  saw  one  of  the  angels  stepped  out  of  the  New  Testament. 


AUNT  DINAH'S  DEFENSIVE  TACTICS. 

LIKE  a  certain  class  of  modern  philosophers,  Dinah  perfectly 
scorned  logic  and  reason  in  every  shape,  and  always  took  refuge  in 
intuitive  certainty  ;  and  here  she  was  perfectly  impregnable.  No 
possible  amount  of  talent,  or  authority,  or  explanation,  could  ever 
make  her  believe  that  any  other  way  was  better  than  her  own,  or 
that  the  course  she  had  pursued  in  the  smallest  matter  could  be  in 
the  least  modified.  This  had  been  a  conceded  point  with  her  old 
mistress.  Marie's  mother ;  and  "  Miss  Marie,"  as  Dinah  always 
called  her  young  mistress  even  after  her  marriage,  found  it  easier  to 
submit  than  contend  ;  and  so  Dinah  had  ruled  supreme.  This  was 
the  easier,  in  that  she  was  perfect  mistress  of  that  diplomatic  art 
which  unites  the  utmost  subservience  of  manner  with  the  utmost 
inflexibility  as  to  measure. 

Dinah  was  mistress  of  the  whole  art  and  mystery  of  excuse-mak- 


HARRIET   ELIZABETH    BEECHER    STOWE.  373 

ing,  in  all  its  branches.  Indeed,  it  was  an  axiom  with  her  that  the 
cook  can  do  no  wrong,  and  a  cook  in  a  southern  kitchen  finds  abun- 
dance of  heads  and  shoulders  on  which  to  lay  off  every  sin  and 
frailty,  so  as  to  maintain  her  own  immaculateness  entire.  If  any 
part  of  the  dinner  was  a  failure,  there  were  fifty  indisputably  good 
reasons  for  it,  and  it  was  the  fault,  undeniably,  of  fifty  other  people, 
whom  Dinah  berated  with  unsparing  zeal. 

But  it  was  very  seldom  that  there  was  any  failure  in  Dinah's  last 
results.  Though  her  mode  of  doing  everything  was  peculiarly 
meandering  and  circuitous,  and  without  any  sort  of  calculation  as  to 
time  and  place,  —  though  her  kitchen  generally  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  arranged  by  a  hurricane  blowing  through  it,  and  she  had  about 
as  many  places  for  each  cooking  utensil  as  there  were  days  in  the 
year,  —  yet,  if  one  could  have  patience  to  wait  her  own  good  time, 
up  would  come  her  dinner  in  perfect  order,  and  in  a  style  of  prepa- 
ration with  which  an  epicure  could  find  no  fault. 

It  was  now  the  season  of  incipient  preparation  for  dinner.  Dinah, 
who  required  large  intervals  of  reflection  and  repose,  and  was  studious 
of  ease  in  all  her  arrangements,  was  seated  on  the  kitchen  floor, 
smoking  a  short,  stumpy  pipe,  to  which  she  was  much  addicted,  and 
which  she  always  kindled  up,  as  a  sort  of  censer,  whenever  she  felt 
the  need  of  an  inspiration  in  her  arrangements.  It  was  Dinah's 
mode  of  invoking  the  domestic  Muses. 

Seated  around  her  were  various  members  of  that  rising  race  with 
which  a  southern  household  abounds,  engaged  in  shelling  peas, 
peeling  potatoes,  picking  pin-feathers  out  of  fowls,  and  other  prepar- 
atory arrangements,  —  Dinah  every  once  in  a  while  interrupting  her 
meditations  to  give  a  poke,  or  a  rap  on  the  head,  to  some  of  the 
young  operators,  with  the  pudding-stick  that  lay  by  her  side.  In 
fact  Dinah  ruled  over  the  woolly  heads  of  the  younger  members 
with  a  rod  of  iron,  and  seemed  to  consider  them  born  for  no  earthly 
purpose  but  to  "  save  her  steps,"  as  she  phrased  it.  It  was  the 
spirit  of  the  system  under  which  she  had  grown  up,  and  she  carried 
it  out  to  its  full  extent. 

Miss 'Ophelia,  after  passing  on  her  reformatory  tour  through  all 
the  other  parts  of  the  establishment,  now  entered  the  kitchen. 
Dinah  had  heard,  from  various  sources,  what  was  going  on,  and  re- 
solved to  stand  on  defensive  and  conservative  ground  —  mentally 
determined  to  oppose  and  ignore  every  new  measure,  without  any 
actual  and  observable  contest. 

The  kitchen  was  a  large  brick-floored  apartment,  with  a  great  old- 


374  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

fashioned  fireplace  stretching  along  one  side  of  it  —  an  arrangement 
which  St.  Clare  had  vainly  tried  to  persuade  Dinah  to  exchange  for 
the  convenience  of  a  modern  cook-stove.  Not  she.  No  Puseyite, 
or  conservative  of  any  school,  was  ever  more  inflexibly  attached  to 
time-honored  inconveniences  than  Dinah. 

When  St.  Clare  had  first  returned  from  the  north,  impressed  with 
the  system  and  order  of  his  uncle's  kitchen  arrangements,  he  had 
largely  provided  his  own  with  an  array  of  cupboards,  drawers,  and 
various  apparatus,  to  induce  systematic  regulation,  under  the  sanguine 
illusion  that  it  would  be  of  any  possible  assistance  to  Dinah  in  her 
arrangements.  He  might  as  well  have  provided  them  for  a  squirrel 
or  a  magpie.  The  more  drawers  and  closets  there  were,  the  more 
hiding-holes  could  Dinah  make  for  the  accommodation  of  old  rags, 
hair-combs,  old  shoes,  ribbons,  cast-off  artificial  flowers,  and  other 
articles  of  vertu,  wherein  her  soul  delighted. 

When  Miss  Ophelia  entered  the  kitchen,  Dinah  did  not  rise,  but 
smoked  on  in  sublime  tranquillity,  regarding  her  movements  ob- 
liquely out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  but  apparently  intent  only  on  the 
operations  around  her. 

Miss  Ophelia  commenced  opening  a  set  of  drawers. 

"  What  is  this  drawer  for,  Dinah  ?  "  she  said. 

"  It's  handy  for  most  anything,  missis,"  said  Dinah.  So  it  ap- 
peared to  be.  From  the  variety  it  contained,  Miss  Ophelia  pulled 
out  first  a  fine  damask  table-cloth  stained  with  blood,  having  evi- 
dently been  used  to  envelop  some  raw  meat. 

"  What's  this,  Dinah  ?  You  don't  wrap  up  meat  in  your  mistress's 
best  table-cloths  ? " 

"  O,  Lor',  missis,  no  ;  the  towels  was  all  a  missin'  —  so  I  just  did 
it.  I  laid  out  to  wash  that  ar'  —  that's  why  I  put  it  thar." 

"  Shif 'less  !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia  to  herself,  proceeding  to  tumble 
over  the  drawer,  where  she  found  a  nutmeg-grater  and  two  or  three 
nutmegs,  a  Methodist  hymn-book,  a  couple  of  soiled  Madras  hand- 
kerchiefs, some  yarn  and  knitting-work,  a  paper  of  tobacco  and  a 
pipe,  a  few  crackers,  one  or  two  gilded  china  saucers  with  some 
pomade  in  them,  one  or  two  thin  old  shoes,  a  piece  of  flannel  care- 
fully pinned  up,  enclosing  some  small  white  onions,  several  damask 
table-napkins,  some  coarse  crash  towels,  some  twine  and  darning- 
needles,  and  several  broken  papers,  from  which  sundry  sweet  herbs 
were  sifting  into  the  drawer. 

"  Where  do  you  keep  your  nutmegs,  Dinah  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  "  prayed  for  patience." 


HARRIET    ELIZABETH    BEECHER  STOWE.  3/5 

"  Most  anywhar,  missis  ;  there's  some  in  that  cracked  tea-cup  up 
there,  and  there's  some  over  in  that  ar  cupboard." 

"  Here  are  some  in  the  grater,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  holding 
them  up. 

"  Laws,  yes  ;  I  put  'em  there  this  morning  —  I  likes  to  keep  my 
things  handy,"  said  Dinah.  "  You  Jake  !  what  are  you  stopping 
for  ?  You'll  cotch  it !  Be  still,  thar  !  "  she  added,  with  a  dive  of 
her  stick  at  the  criminal. 

"  What's  this  ? "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  holding  up  the  saucer  of 
pomade. 

"  Laws,  it's  my  har-grease  ;  I  put  it  thar  to  have  it  handy." 

"  Do  you  use  your  mistress's  best  saucers  for  that  ?  " 

"  Law  !  it  was  'cause  I  was  driv,  and  in  such  a  hurry.  I  was 
gwine  to  change  it  this  very  day." 

"  Here  are  two  damask  table-napkins." 

"  Them  table-napkins  I  put  thar  to  get  'em  washed  out  some 
day." 

"  Don't  you  have  some  place  here  on  purpose  for  things  to  be 
washed  ? " 

"  Well,  Mas'r  St.  Clare  got  dat  ar  chest,  he  said,  for  dat ;  but  I 
likes  to  mix  up  biscuit  and  hev  my  things  on  it  some  days,  and  then 
it  ain't  handy  a  liftin'  up  the  lid." 

"  Why  don't  you  mix  your  biscuits  on  the  pastry-table,  there  ?  " 

"  Law,  missis,  it  gets  sot  so  full  of  dishes,  and  one  thino-  and 
another,  der  an't  no  room,  no  ways  —  " 

"  But  you  should  wash  your  dishes,  and  clear  them  away." 

"  Wash  my  dishes  !  "  said  Dinah,  in  a  high  key,  as  her  wrath 
began  to  rise  over  her  habitual  respect  of  manner.  "  What  does 
ladies  know  'bout  work,  I  want  to  know  ?  When'd  mas'r  ever  get 
his  dinner,  if  I  was  to  spend  all  my  time  a  washin'  and  a  puttin'  up 
dishes  ?  Miss  Marie  never  tellecl  me  so,  no  how." 

"  Well,  here  are  these  onions." 

"Laws,  yes!"  said  Dinah;  "thar  is  whar  I  put  em,  now.  I 
couldn't  'member.  Them's  particular  onions  I  was  a  savin'  for  dis 
yer  very  stew.  I'd  forgot  they  was  in  dat  ar  old  flannel." 

Miss  Ophelia  lifted  out  the  sifting  papers  of  sweet  herbs.  "  I 
wish  missis  wouldn't  touch  dem  ar.  I  likes  to  keep  my  things 
where  I  knows  whar  to  go  to  'em,"  said  Dinah,  rather  decidedly. 

"  But  you  don't  want  these  holes  in  the  papers." 

"  Them's  handy  for  siftin'  on't  out,"  said  Dinah. 

"  But  you  see  it  spills  all  over  the  drawer." 


3/6  HANDBOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

"  Laws,  yes  !  if  missis  will  go  a  tumblin'  things  all  up  so,  it  will. 
Missis  has  spilt  lots  dat,  an  way,"  said  Dinah,  coming  uneasily  to 
the  drawers.  "  If  missis  only  will  go  up  stairs  till  my  clarin'  up  time 
comes,  I'll  have  eberything  right ;  but  I  can't  do  nothin'  when 
ladies  is  round  a  henderin'.  You,  Sam,  don't  you  gib  de  baby  dat  ar 
sugar-bowl  !  I'll  crack  ye  over,  if  ye  don't  mind  !  " 

' "  I'm  going  through  the  kitchen,  and  going  to  put  everything  in 
order,  once,  Dinah,  and  then  I'll  expect  you  to  keep  it  so." 

"  Lor,  now,  Miss  Thelia,  dat  ar  an't  no  way  for  ladies  to  do.  I 
never  did  see  ladies  doin'  no  sich  ;  my  old  missis  nor  Miss  Marie 
never  did,  and  I  don't  see  no  kinder  need  on't ; "  and  Dinah  stalked 
indignantly  about,  while  Miss  Ophelia  piled  and  sorted  dishes, 
emptied  dozens  of  scattering  bowls  of  sugar  into  one  receptacle, 
sorted  napkins,  table-cloths,  and  towels  for  washing  —  washing, 
wiping,  and  arranging  with  her  own  hands,  and  with  a  speed  and 
alacrity  which  perfectly  amazed  Dinah. 

"  Lor',  now !  if  dat  ar  de  way  dem  northern  ladies  do,  dey  an't 
ladies  no  how,"  she  said  to  some  of  her  satellites,  when  at  a  safe 
hearing  distance.  "  I  has  things  as  straight  as  anybody,  when  my 
clarin'-up  time  comes  ;  but  I  don't  want  ladies  round  a  henderin' 
and  gettin'  my  things  all  where  I  can't  find  'em." 

To  do  Dinah  justice,  she  had,  at  irregular  periods,  paroxysms  of 
reformation  and  arrangement,  which  she  called  "  clarin'-up  times," 
when  she  would  begin  with  great  zeal,  and  turn  every  drawer  and 
closet  wrong  side  outward  on  to  the  floor  or  tables,  and  make  the 
ordinary  confusion  seven-fold  more  confounded.  Then  she  would 
light  her  pipe,  and  leisurely  go  over  her  arrangements,  looking 
things  over,  and  discoursing  upon  them  ;  making  all  the  young  fry 
scour  most  vigorously  on  the  tin  things,  and  keeping  up  for  several 
hours  a  most  energetic  state  of  confusion,  which  she  would  explain 
to  the  satisfaction  of  all  inquirers,  by  the  remark  that  she  was  a 
"clarin'-up."  "She  couldn't  hev  things  a  gwine  on  so  as  they  had 
been,  and  she  was  gwine  to  make  these  yer  young  ones  keep  better 
order  ;  "  for  Dinah  herself,  somehow,  indulged  the  illusion  that  she 
herself  was  the  soul  of  order,  and  it  was  only  the  young  uns,  and  the 
everybody  else  in  the  house,  that  were  the  cause  of  anything  that 
fell  short  of  perfection  in  this  respect.  When  all  the  tins  were 
scoured,  and  the  tables  scrubbed  snowy  white,  and  everything  that 
could  offend  tucked  out  of  sight  in  holes  and  corners,  Dinah  would 
dress  herself  up  in  a  smart  dress,  clean  apron,  and  high,  brilliant 
Madras  turban,  and  tell  all  marauding  "  young  uns  "  to  keep  out  of 


CHRISTOPHER   PEARSE    CRANCH. 

the  kitchen,  for  she  was  gwine  to  have  things  kept  nice.  Indeed, 
these  periodic  seasons  were  often  an  inconvenience  to  the  whole 
household,  for  Dinah  would  contract  such  an  immoderate  attach- 
ment to  her  scoured  tin,  as  to  insist  upon  it  that  it  shouldn't  be 
used  again  for  any  possible  purpose  —  at  least  till  the  ardor  of  the 
"  clarin'-up  "  period  abated. 


CHRISTOPHER   PEARSE   CRANCH. 

Christopher  Pearse  Cranch  was  born  in  Alexandria,  Va. ,  March  8,  1813,  and  was  graduated 
at  Columbia  College,  Washington,  in  1832.  He  studied  divinity  at  the  Cambridge  Theologi- 
cal School,  but  soon  relinquished  the  clerical  profession,  and  became  a  landscape  painter. 
He  was  one  of  the  contributors  to  the  Dial  (conducted  by  Margaret  Fuller,  George  Ripley, 
and  Mr.  Emerson),  and  published  in  it  some  of  his  most  striking  verses.  A  small  volume 
of  his  poems  was  published  in  1844.  In  1847  he  visited  Europe,  and  resided  abroad,  mostly 
in  Paris,  for  over  ten  years.  He  wrote  and  illustrated  two  juvenile  books  of  a  fanciful  char- 
acter, entitled  The  Last  of  the  Huggermuggers  (1856),  and  Kobboltozo  (1857).  He  has 
lately  made  a  poetical  translation  of  Virgil,  to  be  published  by  Messrs.  Osgood  &  Co.,  in 
uniform  style  with  Bryant's  Homer,  Longfellow's  Dante,  and  Taylor's  Faust. 

Mr.  Cranch's  poetry  is  for  poets.  It  is  instinct  with  genuine  feeling,  and  wrought  into 
terse  and  weighty  lines.  He  has  a  rare  sense  of  music,  and  his  sonnets  upon  several 
musical  instruments  are  full  of  quaint  and  characteristic  beauty. 

Since  his  return  from  Europe  Mr.  Cranch  has  lived  at  Staten  Island,  N.  Y. 

TO   THE   MAGNOLIA   GRANDIFLORA. 

MAJESTIC  flower  !     How  purely  beautiful 

Thou  art,  as  rising  from  thy  bower  of  green, 
Those  dark  and  glossy  leaves  so  thick  and  full, 

Thou  standest  like  a  high-born  forest  queen 
Among  thy  maidens  clustering  round  so  fair  ;  — 

I  love  to  watch  thy  sculptured  form  unfolding, 
And  look  into  thy  depths,  to  image  there 

A  fairy  cavern  ;  and  while  thus  beholding, 
And  while  thy  breeze  floats  o'er  thee,  matchless  flower, 

I  breathe  the  perfume,  delicate  and  strong, 
That  comes  like  incense  from  thy  petal-bower ; 

My  fancy  roams  those  southern  woods  along, 
Beneath  that  glorious  tree,  where  deep  among 

The  unsunned  leaves  thy  large  white  flower-cups  hung ! 


3/8  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


SLEEP. 

LIKE  the  dark  mirror  of  some  mountain  lake 

To  woods  and  clouds,  to  stars  and  twilight  flowers, 
Art  thou,  O  Sleep,  to  these  our  waking  hours. 

From  all  that  passes  in  us  when  awake, 

Some  strange  reflection  thou  dost  ever  take  ; 
From  all  events  and  acts  thy  deeps  have  caught 
The  dim  inverted  images  of  thought 

And  feeling.     But  as  winds  will  sometimes  break 
The  stillness  of  the  water,  every  gleam 

Of  beauty  or  of  order  is  deranged, 

And  all  the  fairy  picture  wildly  changed, 
So  the  calm  image  of  some  happiest  dream 

Turns  dark  and  dim,  and  with  proportion  lost, 

Waves,  endless,  shapeless,  wild,  even  when  loved  the  most 


MORNING. 

THE  earth  was  wandering  in  a  troubled  sleep, 

And  as  it  wandered,  dreaming  tearful  dreams, 
Then  came  the  sun  adown  his  orient  steep, 

Making  sweet  morning  with  its  golden  beams  ; 
A  parent,  bending  o'er  his  child,  he  seems, 

Kissing  its  eyes,  lips,  cheeks,  with  warm  embrace  ; 
So  kisseth  he  the  mountains,  woods,  and  streams, 

And  all  the  dew-like  tears  from  off  its  face. 
O,  joy  !     That  father's  smile  is  like  no  other  — 

The  child  is  folded  in  a  parent's  arms, 
And  looks  up  to  the  sky,  its  blue-eyed  mother, 

And  laughs,  with  light  upon  its  waking  charms. 
Ah,  happy  earth,  what  tender  care  hast  thou  ! 
There  is  no  midnight  cloud  or  dream  upon  thee  now. 


NIGHT. 

THE  star-wrought  mantle  of  the  dewy  Night 
Is  folded  now  all  round  and  round  thee,  Earth  ; 

Safely  to  rest !  this  moon  thy  chamber-light, 
These  winds  thy  waving  curtains,  and  the  birth 


CHRISTOPHER   PEARSE    CRANCH.  3/9 

Of  white-winged  mountain  mists  thy  dreams  shall  be  — 

Silently  rising  as  thy  slumbers  fall. 
The  Night  is  now  too  clear  for  thee  to  see 

The  storm-clouds  gather  at  the  tempest's  call, 
And  fright  thee  with  their  dream-scowl  as  thou  sleepest. 

Rest  thee,  O  mother  Earth  !     The  heavens  above 
Shine  on-  thy  sleep,  will  cheer  thee  if  thou  weepest, 

And  sing  thee  their  old  morning  song  of  love  ; 
They  watch  o'er  thee,  as  thou,  when  daylight  comes, 
Dost  watch,  from  all  thy  hills,  over  thy  children's  homes. 

GNOSIS.* 

THOUGHT  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 

Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought ; 
Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils  ; 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen  ; 
All  our  deep  communing  fails 

To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known, 

Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet ; 
We  are  columns  left  alone, 

Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 

Far  apart,  though  seeming  near, 
In  our  light  we  scattered  lie  ; 

All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  company 

But  a  babbling  summer  stream  ? 
What  our  wise  philosophy 

But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought ; 

Only  when  we  live  above 
What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught ; 

*  Knowing. 


380       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  Fount  which  gave  them  birth, 

And  by  inspiration  led, 

Which  they  never  drew/rom  earth, 

We  like  parted  drops  of  rain 
Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run, 

Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 


HENRY  WARD   BEECHER. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher  was  born  in  Litchfield,  Conn.,  June  24,  1813,  and  was  graduated  at 
Amherst  College  in  1834.  He  studied  theology  under  the  instruction  of  his  father,  at  Lane 
Seminary,  near  Cmcinnrti,  and  was  settled  as  a  preacher  first  at  Lawrenceburg,  Ind.,  and 
afterwards  at  Indianapolis.  In  1847  he  removed  to  Brooklyn,  N.  Y,,  and  became  pastor  of 
the  Plymouth  Church.  With  the  exception  of  a  novel,  entitled  Norwood  (1866),  his  works 
are  the  fruit  of  his  regular  labors  as  a  p'reacher,  and  as  a  contributor  to  religious  periodicals. 
He  wrote  for  the  New  York  Independent  a  series  of  articles  which  has  been  published  in 
two  volumes,  under  the  title  of  Star  .Papers.  Notes  from  Plymouth  Pulpit  is  a  regular 
report  of  his  sermons.  Life  Thoughts  is  a  collection  of  passages  from  his  extemporaneous 
discourses,  taken  down  in  short  hand  by  one  of  his  admirers.  He  is  the  author  of  Lectures 
to  Young  Men,  Eyes  and  Ears  (1862),  Freedom  and  War  (1863),  and  two  volumes  of 
sermons. 

Mr.  Beecher  is  a  natural  orator,  and  whether  he  is  on  the  public  platform,  at  the  desk  of 
the  lecturer,  or  in  his  own  pulpit,  he  exercises  an  absolute  sway  over  the  feelings  of  his 
audience.  His  sense  of  humor  is  acute,  so  that  even  the  periods  of  his  sermons  are  some- 
times rounded  with  smiles.  His  illustrations,  like  those  of  all  great  teachers,  from  Plato  to 
Emerson,  are  drawn  from  homely  subjects,  but  they  flash  on  the  understanding,  and  touch 
the  heart  with  irresistible  force.  His  enthusiasm  is  magnetic  ;  the  speaker  and  the  hearer 
are  moved  by  a  simultaneous  impulse  —  the  one  to  say  his  noblest  things,  and  the  other  to 
follow  with  a  lively  apprehension.  It  is  while  on  the  wing,  as  it  were,  that  Mr.  Beecher 
has  given  the  proof  of  his  imaginative  power.  Then  it  is  that  his  figures  come  clothed  in 
perfect  grace,  and  his  language  lias  a  natural  felicity.  The  extracts  that  follow  seem  to  us 
to  warrant  this  estimate.  We  doubt  if  so  many  apophthegms,  so  many  exquisite  poetic  images, 
as  are  contained  in  Life  Thoughts,  can  be  gathered  from  any  volume  of  sermons,  without 
going  back  to  Jeremy  Taylor.  At  the  same  time  we  doubt  whether  Mr.  Beecher  could  sit 
down  to  write  those  same  glowing  sentences  with  much  hope  of  success.  The  ideas  are 
his,  but  are  born  only  when  the  subject  and  the  time  call  them  into  life.  His  sermons  are 
thoughtful,  instructive,  and  full  of  ingenious  illustrations  ;  their  method  shows  careful  study, 
but  their  brilliant  passages  are  as  unpremeditated  as  lightning  strokes. 

In  fiction  he  did  not  gain  great  reputation,  nor  is  he  greatly  successful  as  an  essayist ;  the 
mastery  of  a  finished  and  graceful  style  is  not  to  be  carried  by  assault,  like  a  redoubt.  And 
his  pressing  duties  have  left  him  small  time  for  what  he  would  probably  term  the  arts  of  the 
literary  pharisee.  But  it  is  impossible  for  such  a  man  to  be  dull,  or  otherwise  than  interest- 
ing ;  and  while  his  wonderful  fervor  as  a  speaker  remains,  it  would  be  too  much  to  ask  that 
he  should  carry  the  same  fire  into  his  closet. 


HENRY    WARD    BEECHER.    '  38! 

[From  Life  Thoughts.] 
THE   TWENTY-THIRD   PSALM. 

DAVID  has  left  no  sweeter  psalm  than  the  short  twenty-third.  It 
is  but  a  moment's  opening  of  his  soul ;  but,  as  when  one,  walking  the 
winter  street,  sees  the  door  opened  for  some  one  to  enter,  and  the 
red  light  streams  a  moment  forth,  and  the  forms  of  gay  children  are 
running  to  greet  the  comer,  and  genial  music  sounds,  though  the 
door  shuts  and  leaves  night  black,  yet  it  cannot  shut  back  again  all 
that  the  eye,  the  ear,  the  heart,  and  the  imagination  have  seen  —  so 
in  this  psalm,  though  it  is  but  a  moment's  opening  of  the  soul,  are 
emitted  truths  of  peace  and  consolation  that  will  never  be  absent 
from  the  world. 

The  twenty-third  -psalm  is  the  nightingale  of  the  psalms.  It  is 
small,  of  a  homely  feather,  singing  shyly  out  of  obscurity ;  but,  O,  it 
has  filled  the  air  of  the  whole  world  with  melodious  joy,  greater  than 
the  heart  can  conceive.  Blessed  be  the  day  on  which  that  psalm 
was  born. 

What  would  you  say  of  a  pilgrim  commissioned  of  God  to  travel 
up  and  down  the  earth  singing  a  strange  melody,  which,  when  heard, 
caused  him  to  forget  what  sorrow  he  had  ?  And  so  the  singing 
angel  goes  on  his  way  through  all  lands,  singing  in  the  language  of 
all  nations,  driving  away  trouble  by  the  pulses  of  the  air  which  his 
tongue  moves  with  divine  power.  Behold  just  such  a  one  !  This 
pilgrim  God  has  sent  to  speak  in  every  language  on  the  globe.  It 
has  charmed  more  griefs  to  rest  than  all  the  philosophy  of  the 
world.  It  has  remanded  to  their  dungeon  more  felon  thoughts, 
more  black  doubts,  more  thieving  sorrows,  than  there  are  sands  on 
the  sea-shore.  It  has  comforted  the  noble  host  of  the  poor.  It  has 
sung  courage  to  the  army  of  the  disappointed.  It  has  poured  balm 
and  consolation  into  the  heart  of  the  sick,  of  captives  in  dungeons, 
of  widows  in  their  pinching  griefs,  of  orphans  in  their  loneliness. 
Dying  soldiers  have  died  easier  as  it  was  read  to  them  ;  ghastly 
hospitals  have  been  illumined ;  it  has  visited  the  prisoner  and 
broken  his  chains,  and,  like  Peter's  angel,  led  him  forth  in  imagina- 
tion, and  sung  him  back  to  his  home  again.  It  has  made  the  dying 
Christian  slave  freer  than  his  master,  and  consoled  those  whom, 
dying,  he  left  behind  mourning,  not  so  much  that  he  was  gone  as 
because  they  were  left  behind  and  could  not  go  too.  Nor  is  its 
work  done.  It  will  go  singing  to  your  children  and  my  children,  and 
to  their  children,  through  all  the  generations  of  time ;  nor  will  it  fold 


382       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

its  wings  till  the  last  pilgrim  is  safe,  and  time  ended,  and  then  it 
shall  fly  back  to  the  bosom  of  God,  whence  it  issued,  and  sound  on, 
mingled  with  all  those  sounds  of  celestial  joy  which  make  heaven 
musical  forever. 


NOT   ENOUGH   TO   BE   SINCERE. 

IT  is  often  said,  it  is  no  matter  what  a  man  believes  if  he  is  only 
sincere.  This  is  true  of  all  minor  truths,  and  false  of  all  truths 
whose  nature  it  is  to  fashion  a  man's  life.  It  will  make  no  difference 
in  a  man's  harvest  whether  he  think  turnips  have  more  saccharine 
matter  than  potatoes  —  whether  corn  is  better  than  wheat.  But  let 
the  man  sincerely  believe  that  seed  planted  without  ploughing  is  as 
good  as  with,  that  January  is  as  favorable  for  seed-sowing  as  April, 
and  that  cockle-seed  will  produce  as  good  a  harvest  as  wheat,  and 
will  it  make  no  difference  ?  A  child  might  as  well  think  he  could 
reverse  that  ponderous  marine  engine  which,  night  and  day,  in  calm 
and  storm,  ploughs  its  way  across  the  deep,  by  sincerely  taking  hold 
of  the  paddle-wheel,  as  a  man  might  think  he  could  reverse  the 
action  of  the  elements  of  God's  moral  government  through  a  mis- 
guided sincerity.  They  will  roll  over  such  a  one,  and  whelm  him 
in  endless  ruin. 

THEOLOGICAL  STRIFE  FATAL  TO  PIETY. 

How  sad  is  that  field  from  which  battle  has  just  departed  !  By  as 
much  as  the  valley  was  exquisite  in  its  loveliness,  is  it  now  sublime- 
ly sad  in  its  desolation.  Such  to  me  is  the  Bible,  when  a  fighting 
theologian  has  gone  through  it. 

How  wretched  a  spectacle  is  a  garden  into  which  cloven-footed 
beasts  have  entered !  That  which  yesterday  was  fragrant,  and 
shone  all  over  with  crowded  beauty,  is  to-day  uprooted,  despoiled, 
trampled,  and  utterly  devoured,  and  all  over  the  ground  you  shall 
find  but  the  rejected  cuds  of  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  forms  that  have 
been  champed  for  their- juices,  and  then  rejected.  Such  to  me  is  the 
Bible,  when  the  pragmatic  prophecy-monger  and  the  swinish  util- 
itarian have  toothed  its  fruits  and  craunched  its  blossoms. 

O  garden  of  the  Lord  !  whose  seeds  dropped  down  from  heaven, 
and  to  whom  angels  bear  watering  dews  night  by  night !  O  flowers 
and  plants  of  righteousness  !  O  sweet  and  holy  fruits  !  we  walk 
among  you,  and  gaze  with  loving  eyes,  and  rest  under  your  odorous 
shadows  ;  nor  will  we,  with  sacrilegious  hand,  tear  you,  that  we  may 


HENRY    WARD    BEECHER.  383 

search  the  secret  of  your  roots,  nor  spoil  you,  that  we  may  know 
how  such  wondrous  grace  and  goodness  are  involved  within  you  ! 


HOMELY   ILLUSTRATIONS    OF  DIVINE   TRUTH. 

WHAT  wonderful  provision  God  has  made  for  us,  spreading  out 
the  Bible  into  types  of  nature  ! 

What  if  every  part  of  your  house  should  begin  to  repeat  the 
truths  which  have  been  committed  to  its  symbolism  ?  The  lowest 
stone  would  say,  in  silence  of  night,  "  Other  foundation  can  no  man 
lay."  The  corner-stone  would  catch  the  word,  "  Christ  is  the  corner- 
stone." The  door  would  add,  "  I  am  the  door."  The  taper  burn- 
ing by  your  bedside  would  stream  up  in  a  moment  to  tell  you, 
"  Christ  is  the  light  of  the  worM."  If  you  gaze  upon  your  children, 
they  reflect  from  their  sweetly-sleeping  faces  the  words  of  Christ, 
"  Except  ye  become  like  little  children."  If,  waking,  you  look 
towards  your  parents'  couch,  from  that  sacred  place  God  calls  him- 
self your  father  and  your  mother.  Disturbed  by  the  crying  of  your 
children,  who  are  affrighted  in  a  dream,  you  will  rise  to  soothe 
them,  and  hear  God  saying,  "  So  will  I  wipe  away  all  tears  from 
your  eyes  in  heaven."  Returning  to  your  bed,  you  look  from  the 
window.  Every  star  hails  you,  but,  chiefest,  "  the  bright  and  morning 
Star."  By  and  by,  flaming  from  the  east,  the  flood  of  morning 
bathes  your  dwelling,  and  calls  you  forth  to  the  cares  of. the  day, 
and  then  you  remember  that  God  is  the  sun,  and  that  heaven  is 
bright  with  his  presence.  Drawn  by  hunger,  you  approach  the 
table.  The  loaf  whispers  as  you  break  it,  "  Broken  for  you,"  and 
the  wheat  of  the  loaf  sighs,  "  Bruised  and  ground  for  you."  The 
water  that  quenches  your  thirst  says,  "  I  am  the  water  of  life."  If 
you  wash  your  hands,  you  can  but  remember  the  teachings  of 
spiritual  purity.  If  you  wash  your  feet,  that  hath  been  done  sacred- 
ly by  Christ,  as  a  memorial.  The  very  roof  of  your  dwelling  hath 
its  utterance,  and  bids  you  look  for  the  day  when  God's  house  shall 
receive  its  top-stone. 

Go  forth  to  your  labor,  and  what  thing  can  you  see  that  hath  not 
its  message  ?  The  ground  is  full  of  sympathy.  The  flowers  have 
been  printed  with  teachings.  The  trees,  that  only  seem  to  shake 
their  leaves  in  sport,  are  framing  divine  sentences.  The  birds  tell 
of  heaven  with  their  love-warblings  in  the  green  twilight.  The 
sparrow  is  preacher  of  truth.  The  hen  that  clucks  and  broods  her 
chickens,  unconscious  that  to  the  end  of  the  world  she  is. part  and 


384  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

parcel  of  a  revelation  of  God  to  man,  the  sheep  that  bleat  from 
the  pastures,  the  hungry  wolves  that  blink  in  the  forest,  the  serpent 
that  glides  noiselessly  in  the  grass,  the  raven  that  flies  heavily 
across  the  field,  the  lily  over  which  his  shadow  passes,  the  plough, 
the  sickle,  the  vane,  the  barn,  the  flail,  the  threshing-floor,  all  of 
them  are  consecrated  priests,  unrobed  teachers,  revelators  that  see 
no  vision  themselves,  but  that  bring  to  us  thoughts  of  truth,  con- 
tentment, hope,  and  love.  All  are  ministers  of  God.  The  whole 
earth  doth  praise  him,  and  show  forth  his  glory  ! 


RELIGION  A   HARMONY   OF   THE   FACULTIES. 

SOME  men  think  that  religion  is  a  mere  ecstatic  experience,  like  a 
tune  rarely  played  upon  some  faculty ;  living  only  while  it  is  being 
performed,  and  then  dying  in  silence.  And,  indeed,  many  men 
carry  their  religion  as  a  church  carries  its  bell  —  high  up  in  a 
belfry,  to  ring  out  on  sacred  days,  to  strike  for  funerals,  or  to  chime 
for  weddings.  All  the  rest  of  the  time  it  hangs  high  above  reach  — 
voiceless,  silent,  dead.  But  religion  is  not  the  specialty  of  any  one 
feeling,  but  the  mood  and  harmony  of  the  whole  of  them.  It  is  the 
whole  soul  marching  heavenward  to  the  music  of  joy  and  love,  with 
well-ranked  faculties,  every  one  of  them  beating  tune  and  keep- 
ing time. 

The  religious  life  is  thoughtful,  but  thought  is  not  alone  its  nature. 
It  is  full  of  affection,  but  it  has  more  than  mere  feeling ;  it  abounds 
in  grand  moral  impulses.  Effervescent  experiences  are  not  its  char- 
acteristic. It  is  the  soul  of  a  man  made  wondrously  rich,  moving  to 
the  touch  of  divine  influence  in  every  way  to  which  so  facile  and 
elaborate  a  creature  as  man  can  move.  There  is  no  end  to  its  com- 
binations. It  shapes  itself  beyond  all  enumeration  of  shapes.  It 
thinks  in  vast  and  fathomless  streams.  It  wills  with  all  attitudes  of 
authority  and  decision.  It  feels  with  all  moods  and  variations  of 
social  affection.  It  rises,  by  the  wings  of  faith,  into  the  invisible, 
and  fashions  for  itself  a  life  there,  glowing  with  every  imaginable 
ecstasy.  And  neither  one  of  these  is  religion  more  than  another. 
It  is  the  whole  soul's  life  that  is  religion.  When  the  sun  rose  on 
Memnon,  it  was  fabled  to  have  uttered  melodious  noises  ;  but  what 
were  the  rude  twangings  of  that  huge,  grotesque  statue,  compared 
with  the  soul's  response  when  God  rises  upon  it,  and  every  part, 
like  a  vibrating  chord,  sounds  forth,  to  his  touch,  its  joy  and 
worship  ? 


JOHN   SULLIVAN    DWIGHT.  385 


JOHN   SULLIVAN   DWIGHT. 

John  Sullivan  Dwight  was  born  in  Boston,  May  13,  1813,  and  was  graduated  at  Harvard 
College  in  1832.  He  studied  at  the  Cambridge  Theological  School,  completing  his  course 
in  1836,  and  preached  for  about  six  years.  He  was  settled  in  Northampton  in  1840.  He 
translated,  about  that  time,  the  Select  Minor  Poems  of  Goethe  and  Schiller,  which  were 
published  as  a  volume  in  Ripley's  Specimens  of  Foreign  Literature.  He  contributed 
reviews  of  Tennyson,  Spenser,  and  other  authors,  to  the  Christian  Examiner.  He  wrote 
a  course  of  lectures  upon  Bach,  Handel,  Haydn,  Mozart,  Beethoven,  and  their  successors, 
which  were  delivered  in  Boston,  New  York,  and  Philadelphia.  He  was  a  contributor  to 
the  Dial,  and  afterwards  to  the  Harbinger.  He  joined  the  Brook  Farm  association  in  1842, 
and  remained  there,  teaching  literature  and  music,  and  working  on  the  farm,  until  the  insti- 
tution was  broken  up. 

The  younger  generation  may  need  to  be  informed  that  about  thirty  years  ago  a  number 
of  the  most  intellectual  people  of  Boston  and  vicinity,  among  them  George  Ripley,  George 
W.  Curtis,  and  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  purchased  a  farm  in  West  Roxbury,  and  lived  in  a  com- 
munity, doing  the  necessary  labor  with  their  own  hands,  and  endeavoring  to  show  the  world 
a  better  mode  of  life  by  combining  their  efforts  both  in  practical  affairs  and  in  their  mental 
and  moral  culture.  It  was  a  sincere  and  noble  effort,  though  unsuccessful.  Their  pure  and 
blameless  lives,  and  their  aspirations  for  the  good  of  the  race,  are  not  to  be  thought  of  in 
connection  with  the  later  hideous  developments  of  socialism  in  Paris,  and  the  shameless 
doctrines  of  social  reformers  recently  propounded  in  New  York.  Some  views  of  the 
interior  workings  of  the  experiment  may  be  seen  in  Hawthorne's  Blithedale  Romance. 

Mr.  Dwight  in  1852  established  the  Musical  Journal  that  bears  his  name,  and  of  which 
he  is  still  the  editor.  The  volumes  of  this  periodical  contain  an  invaluable  collection  of  the 
literature  of  music  and  art.  Mr.  Dwight  is  one  of  the  officers  and  a  leading  spirit  in  the 
Harvard  Musical  Association  of  Boston,  and  it  is  to  this  association  that  the  city  is  indebted 
for  the  annual  series  of  symphony  concerts,  for  the  beautiful  Music  Hall,  with  its  magnifi- 
cent organ  and  its  exquisite  statue  of  Beethoven. 

Mr.  Dwight  holds  a  high  place  among  writers.  He  has  the  rare  art  of  expressing  the 
best  ideas,  especially  in  musical  criticism,  by  fortunate  adjectives  and  epithets.  He  is  an 
upholder  of  the  severe  classical  school,  and  often  runs  counter  to  popular  tastes,  but  no  one 
doubts  the  sincerity  of  his  convictions,  or  that  the  end  he  aims  at  is  the  elevation  of  the  art 
and  the  maintenance  of  a  pure  standard  of  beauty  amid  all  the  capricious  changes  of  musical 
fashion. 

[From  the  Christian  Examiner,  May,  1840.] 

SPENSER'S  FAERIE  QUEENE. 

THE  realm  of  Faerie  is  a  purely  moral  world,  unconditioned  by 
time  and  space,  but  making  them  subserve.  .  .  . 

It  is  a  world  in  which  Love,  and  Beauty,  and  the  Rule  of  Right 
shine  always  as  the  grand  interests,  and  into  which  only  enough  of 
wrong  is  introduced  to  occupy  the  Will,  to  furnish  monsters  for  the 
knights  of  glory  to  contend  with,  and  serve  as  foils  to  victorious  vir- 
tue. Here  the  ardent  young  mind  has  its  hopes,  and  enjoys  per- 
petual novelty,  the  mild  excitement  of  surprise  grown  common. 
Here  it  loses  itself  in  a  world  which  dates  not  from  history,  but  from 
25 


386       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

the  heart.  Now,  this  is  truly  poetry,  in  the  sense  of  one  of  the  hap- 
piest definitions  which  we  have  seen.  "  Poetry,"  says  Shelley,  "  is 
the  record  of  the  best  and  happiest  moments  of  the  best  and  hap- 
piest minds."  Pleasure,  without  mixture  of  misgiving  or  alarm  ; 
beauty,  love,  clear  conscience,  and  fresh,  perennial  youth,  —  these 
are  the  atmosphere  of  the  poem  ;  at  times,  a  somewhat  drowsy  at- 
mosphere, as  so  much  summer  must  be  —  but  an  atmosphere  which 
it  is  life  and  occupation  to  breathe.  The  time  to  read  its  lulling, 
mellifluous  stanzas  is  in  summer,  when  the  world  is  green  and  warm, 
and  the  air  is  full  of  sounds  and  smells  which  harmonize  with  your 
imaginary  sensations  while  you  read  ;  when  nature,  as  it  were,  adopts 
all  that  the  poet  paints  and  sings,  and  contradicts  no  word  of  it ;  or 
else,  when  rainy  days  or  snow-storms  drive  back  the  thoughts  into 
their  own  inward  summer,  where  there  is  youth  still,  and  hope  and 
love,  without  fear.  But  for  the  full  surrender  of  one's  self  to  such 
poetry  few  feel  generous  leisure  enough  in  our  economical  age. 
Everything  must  subserve  a  purpose,  must  promise  some  calculable 
result.  Poetry,  while  she  keeps  to  her  own  pure  province  of  reveal- 
ing to  us  a  higher  life,  is  neglected,  and  only  called  in  as  a  con- 
venient helper,  to  impress  the  maxims  and  further  the  enterprises, 
political,  social,  and  personal,  of  this  life.  Pegasus  must  wear  the 
harness.  No  wonder,  then,  that  Spenser,  that  even  Shakespeare, 
are  little  read.  We  have  no  leisure  to  live,  and  through  the  calm 
medium  of  the  universal  mind,  enjoy  all  forms  of  life  in  turn ;  we 
all  have  special  ends  to  pursue,  which  we  will  not  quit,  and  for 
which  we  exclude  nature,  poetry,  love,  God  even.  ,  Let  Milton  and 
Shakespeare  have  the  stars  and  the  mountains,  and  Nature's  music, 
and  all  the  tragedy  and  comedy  of  the  world  to  themselves,  and  let 
Lear,  and  Hamlet,  and  Sir  Guyon,  and  fair  Florimel  accomplish 
their  destinies  in  a  world  not  ours.  Alas  !  the  world  of  poetry  is 
our  world,  if  we  but  knew  ourselves,  and  out  of  it  the  heart  has  no 
home.  .  .  . 

But  the  quality  possessed  in  the  highest  degree  by  Spenser,  the 
light  which  never  leaves  his  works,  is  beauty.  This  it  is,  mainly, 
that  gives  him  his  high  place  among  poets,  and  not  sublimity,  or 
intensity,  or  profoundness  of  thought.  His  muse  haunts  all  the  ex- 
quisite retreats  of  nature,  and  bathes  in  every  innocent  delight.  He 
is  a  very  bee,  or  humming-bird,  among  flowers  ;  through  whole  eter- 
nities of  summer  days  it  is  one  feast  of  beauty  with  him  ;  his  appe- 
tite is  never  cloyed.  He  is  beautiful,  even  while  dull.  His  world 
is  always  fresh  and  young.  His  is  that  gracefulness  of  constant, 


JOHN    SULLIVAN    DWIGHT.  387 

cheerful  activity  and  accomplishment,  which  characterizes  the  music 
of  Haydn,  and  which  better  fitted  him  to  sing  "  The  Creation,"  than 
the  world's  aspiration  for  its  "  Messiah,"  which  required  the  sub- 
limer  genius  of  a  Handel,  or  the  depths  of  love  and  sorrow,  the 
boundless  yearnings  of  a  spirit  like  Beethoven.  Indeed,  The  Faerie 
Queene  reminds  us  more  of  Haydn's  music  than  of  any  poetry  of 
words  with  which  we  are  familiar.  It  has  the  same  constant  grace 
and  cheerfulness,  the  same  tenderness,  and  purity,  and  conscien- 
tiousness, and  about  the  same  moderate  degree  of  depth.  The 
melody  of  the  poem  surpasses  everything.  He  is  the  master  of  ver- 
sification. Those  flowing,  majestical  "  Spenserian  stanzas  "  remain 
as  unrivalled  as  the  Grecian  statues.  They  have  an  architectural 
solidity  and  self-sustaining  proportion.  To  compose  such  may  well 
be  called  "  to  build  the  lofty  rhyme."  The  choice  setting  of  every 
word,  the  antithetic  clauses,  the  endless  alliterations,  would  seem 
studied  and  artificial  in  the  extreme,  but  for  the  perfect  success  in 
every  instance,  the  agreeable  effect  produced,  and  the  freshness  with 
which  every  stanza  so  elaborated  is  left.  It  seems  as  if  this  rhythm 
were  the  habitual  law  of  his  mind,  and  governed  even  its  spontaneous 
workings.  In  some  instances  this  complicated  beauty  of  form  is 
carried  so  far  as  to  seem  like  a  language  in  itself,  another  art,  as  dis- 
tinct from  music  as  from  poetry.  It  is  a  sort  of  verbal  architecture, 
a  rhyming  of  thoughts  as  well  as  of  syllables.  .  .  . 

Imagination,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  is  not  his.  We 
mean,  not  the  power  of  inventing  images,  of  conceiving  of  things 
which  never  were,  but  that  power  which  perceives  the  unity  of 
things,  which  regards  all  things  as  images,  manifestations  of  the  one 
all-pervading  life  ;  that  consciousness  of  Being,  to  which  all  phe- 
nomena are  of  infinite  interest.  He  gives  us  parts  of  Nature,  paints 
each  object  truly,  remembers  faithfully  many  a  tune  which  she  has 
sung  to  him  ;  but  there  is  not  the  key-note  of  all  nature  and  of  all 
being  ringing  through  his  soul.  Where  this  is  felt,  it  matters  not 
what  theme  the  poet  touches,  —  the  same  depth  of  life  is  implied  in 
all  he  says,  the  same  spirit  moulds  and  colors  all  his  expressions, 
and  rounds  the  smallest  trifle  into  an  arc  of  the  full  orb  of  nature. 
The  smallest  and  most  careless  acts  of  genius,  like  the  smallest  leaf 
or  berry,  show  how  all  nature  entered  into  their  composition.  They 
seem  done  not  in  a  corner,  but  out  under  the  open  sky,  in  the  midst 
of  many  witnesses,  and  with  the  sympathy  of  many,  of  all  the  view- 
less spirits  of  the  cloud,  the  stars,  the  waters,  and  the  woods.  But 
a  picture-poet,  like  Spenser,  copies  or  invents  this  or  that,  which  is 


388  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

beautiful  in  itself,  but  conveys  no  consciousness  of  a  whole,  in  which 
it  has  its  being.  If  his  topics  chance  to  be  commonplace,  then  he 
is.  A  Shakespeare,  a  Goethe,  a  Wordsworth,  are  never  dull ;  for 
the  thoughts  and  images,  however  common,  are  always  steeped  in 
the  music  of  the  man,  which  is  also  the  music  of  Nature. 

Universality  such  as  Shakespeare's  was  by  no  means  an  attribute 
of  Spenser's  mind.  He  never  goes  out  of  his  own  individual  con- 
sciousness, and  lives  in  another.  He  never  identifies  himself  with 
his  characters.  They  are  seen  from  without  by  iiim,  and  not  un- 
folded from  within.  So  that  we  are  never  so  lost  in  his  story  as  not 
to  feel  who  the  author  is,  and  that  he  is  standing  by,  pointing  out 
the  objects  of  his  picture  to  us.  Consequently,  his  characters  all 
lack  individuality.  They  are  too  much  alike.  We  do  not  see  what 
they  are,  but  only  what  they  do.  Their  actions  seem  invented  first, 
and  they  are  brought  in  to  perform  them.  They  do  not  seem  to 
live ;  we  should  not  recognize  them  in  another  age  and  another 
dress.  They  are  cold,  as  figures  on  a  phantasmagoria. 


SYLVESTER  JUDD. 

Sylvester  Judd  was  born  in  Westhampton,  Mass.,  July  23,  1813.  He  was  graduated  at 
Yale  College  in  1836,  and,  having  become  a  Unitarian  in  belief,  he  studied  theology  at  the 
Cambridge  School.  He  was  ordained  as  pastor  of  a  church  in  Augusta,  Me.,  in  1840,  and 
remained  there  until  his  death,  which  occurred  January  20,  1853. 

Mr.  Judd  was  a  strong  advocate  of  peace  and  of  temperance,  and  an  opponent  of  slavery 
and  of  capital  punishment.  His  religious  doctrines  were  inwoven  with  his  life,  and  his 
works  are  but  the  various  modes  of  expression  of  his  cherished  principles.  His  first  pub- 
lished work  is  entitled  Margaret,  a  Tale  of  the  Real  and  the  Ideal,  of  Blight  and  Bloom. 
In  this  singular  and  powerful  fiction  the  reader  is  introduced  to  a  New  England  town  as  it 
was  at  the  beginning  of  this  century.  The  simple  manners,  the  rustic  festivals,  the  mode 
of  worship,  and  the  prevailing  intemperance  of  the  period,  are  drawn  with  absolute  fidelity. 
The  author's  earnest  purpose  is  somewhat  too  evident  for  a  well-rounded  work  of  art,  and 
the  movement  of  the  story  is  not  at  all  what  novel-readers  expect;  but  no  one,  in  our  judg- 
ment, has  painted  the  aspects  of  nature  in  New  England  with  such  exquisite  touches,  or  has 
so  clearly  revealed  the  inner  life  of  the  people  at  a  time  of  a  great  impending  transition. 
The  author  had  a  boundless  wealth  of  materials,  but  his  sense  of  form  was  deficient ;  the 
scenes  have  not  been  wrought  into  symmetrical  order,  and  there  is  a  want  of  proportion  in 
the  various  parts.  These  are  fatal  obstacles  to  the  general  popularity  of  the  book.  Still, 
the  genius  of  the  author  shines  throughout  the  sad  story.  Its  vivid  woodland  scenes,  and 
its  strong,  homely  characters,  contrasting  with  the  spiritual  beauty  of  its  heroine,  could 
hardly  have  been  done  for  us  even  by  Hawthorne's  pencil.  Margaret  appeared  in  1845. 
A  new  edition  was  published  in  1851,  and'in  1856  it  was  illustrated  by  Darley,  in  a  series  of 
drawings  that  have  done  honor  to  American  art.  Philo,  an  Evangeliad,  a  religious  poem, 
appeared  in  1850,  and  Richard  Edney,  a  romance,  in  the  same  year.  A  posthumous  work, 


SYLVESTER   JUDD.  389 

entitled  The  Church,  in  a  Series  of  Discourses,  was  published  in  1854.  His  life,  written 
by  Mrs.  Arethusa  Hall,  was  also  published  the  same  year.  Mr.  Judd  was  a  single-hearted, 
sincere,  and  fervent  minister,  and  his  life  was  without  any  striking  events.  But  his  work 
will  preserve  his  memory ;  in  every  generation  there  will  be  those  who  will  fecognize  and 
do  honor  to  his  genius. 

[From  Margaret,  a  Tale  of  the  Real  and  the  Ideal,  of  Blight  and  Bloom.] 
INTRODUCTORY. 

WE  behold  a  child  of  eight  or  ten  months.  It  has  brown,  curly 
hair,  dark  eyes,  fair-conditioned  features,  a  health-glowing  cheek, 
and  well-shaped  limbs.  Who  is  it  ?  Whose  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ? 
Where  is  it  ?  It  is  in  the  centre  of  fantastic  light,  and  only  a  dimly 
revealed  form  appears.  It  may  be  Queen  Victoria's,  or  Sally  Twig's. 
It  is  God's  own  child,  as  all  children  are.  The  blood  of  Adam  and 
Eve,  through  how  many  soever  channels  diverging,  runs  in  its  veins, 
and  the  spirit  of  the  Eternal,  that  blows  everywhere,  has  animated  its 
soul.  It  opens  its  eyes  upon  us,  stretches  out  its  hands  to  us,  as  all 
children  do.  Can  you  love  it  ?  It  may  be  the  heir  of  a  throne,  —  does 
it  interest  you?  or  of  a  milking-stool, — do  not  despise  it.  It  is  a 
miracle  of  the  All-working  ;  it  is  endowed  by  the  All-gifted.  Smile 
upon  it,  it  will  smile  you  back  again  ;  prick  it,  it  will  cry.  Where 
does  it  belong  ?  in  what  zone  or  climate  ?  on  what  hill  ?  to  what 
'plain  ?  It  may  have  been  born  on  the  Thames  or  the  Amazon,  the 
Hoan  Ho  or  the  Mississippi. 

The  vision  deepens.  Green  grass  appears  beneath  the  child.  It 
may,  after  all,  be  Queen  Victoria's  in  Windsor  Park,  or  Sally  Twig's 
on  Little  Ricker  Island.  The  sun  now  shines  upon  it,  a  blue  sky 
breaks  over  it,  and  the  wind  rustles  its  hair.  Sun,  sky,  and  wind  are 
common  to  Arctic  and  Antarctic  regions,  and  belong  to  every  merid- 
ian. A  black-cap  is  seen  to  fly  over  it,  and  this  bird  is  said,  by 
naturalists,  to  be  found  in  both  hemispheres.  A  dog,  or  the  whelp 
of  a  dog,  a  young  pup,  crouches  near  it,  makes  a  caracole  backwards, 
frisks  away,  and  returns  again.  The  child  is  pleased,  throws  out  its 
arms,  and  laughs  right  merrily. 

As  we  now  look  at  the  child,  we  can  hardly  tell  to  which  of  the 
five  races  it  belongs  —  whether  it  be  a  Caucasian,  Mongolian,  Amer- 
ican, Ethiopian,  or  Malay.  Each  child  on  this  terraqueous  ball, 
whether  its  nose  be  aquiline,  its  eyes  black  and  small,  its  cheek- 
bones prominent,  its  lips  large,  or  its  head  narrow  ;  whether  its  hue 
be  white,  olive,  or  jet,  is  of  God's  creating,  and  is  delighted  with  the 
bright  summer  light,  a  bed  of  grass,  the  wind,  birds,  and  puppies  ; 
and  smiles  in  the  eyes  of  all  beholders.  It  is  God's  child  still,  and 


3QO  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

its  mother's.  It  is  curiously  and  wonderfully  made  ;  the  inspiration 
of  the  Almighty  hath  given  it  understanding.  It  will  look  after  God, 
its  Make»r,  by  how  many  soever  names  he  may  be  called ;  it  will 
aspire  to  the  Infinite,  whether  that  Infinite  be  expressed  in  Bengalee 
or  Arabic,  English  or  Chinese ;  it  will  seek  to  know  truth  ;  it  will 
long  to  be  loved  ;  it  will  sin  and  be  miserable,  if  it  has  none  to  care 
for  it ;  it  will  die.  .  .  . 


MARGARET   AT   THE   POND. 

When  Margaret  had  finished  the  several  chores,  she  went  to  the 
Pond.  She  was  barefooted  and  barearmed.  She  wore  a  brown 
linen  gown  or  tunic,  open  in  front,  a  crimson  skirt,  a  blue  checked 
apron,  and,  for  head-covering,  a  green  rush  hat.  By  a  narrow  foot- 
path, winding  through  shrubbery  and  brambles,  and  defiling  along 
the  foot  of  a  steep  hill  that  rose  near  the  house,  she  came  to  the 
margin  of  the  water.  Chilion,  her  brother,  who  was  at  work  with  a 
piece  of  glass,  smoothing  a  snow-white,  bass-wood  paddle,  for  a  little 
bark  canoe  he  had  made  her,  saw  Margaret  approach  with  evident 
pleasure,  yet  received  her  in  the  quietest  possible  manner,- as  she 
leaped  and  laughed  towards  him.  He  asked  her  if  she  remembered 
the  names  of  the  flowers  ;  and,  while  he  was  finishing  the  paddle* 
she  went  along  the  shore  to  gather  them.  The  Pond  covered  sev- 
eral hundreds  of  acres  ;  its  greatest  diameter  measured  about  a  mile 
and  a  half;  its  outline  was  irregular  —  here  divided  by  sharp  rocks, 
there  retreating  into  shaded  coves  ;  and  on  its  face  .appeared  three 
or  four  small  islands,  bearing  trees  and  low  bushes.  Its  banks,  if 
not  really  steep,  had  a  bluff  and  precipitous  aspect  from  the  tall  for- 
est that  girdled  it  about.  The  region  was  evidently  primitive,  and 
the  child,  as  she  went  along,  trod  on  round,  smooth  pebbles  of  white 
and  rose  quartz,  dark  hornblende,  green-stone,  and  an  occasional 
fragment  of  trap,  the  results  of  the  diluvial  ocean,  if  anybody  can 
tell  when  or  what  that  was.  In  piles,  among  the  stones,  lay  quiver- 
ing and  ever-accumulating  masses  of  fleece-like  and  fox-colored  foam  ; 
there  were  also  the  empty  shells  of  various  kinds  of  mollusks.  She 
climbed  over  the  white-peeled  trunks  of  hemlocks  that  had  fallen 
into  the  water,  or  drifted  to  the  shore  ;  she  trod  through  beds  of  fine 
silver-gray  sand,  and  in  the  shallow  edge  of  the  Pond  she  walked  on 
a  hard,  even  bottom  of  the  same,  which  the  action  of  the  waves  had 
beaten  into  a  smooth,  shining  floor.  She  discovered  flowers  which 
her  brother  told  her  were  hoarhound,  skull-caps,  and  Indian  tobacco  ; 


SYLVESTER  JUDD.  39 1 

she  picked  small  green  apples,  that  disease  had  formed  on  the  leaves 
of  the  willows,  and  beautiful  velvety  crimson  berries  from  the  black 
alder. 


MARGARET'S  DREAM. 

Night  came  on,  and  Margaret  went  to  bed.  The  wind  puffed, 
hissed,  whistled,  shrieked,  thundered,  sighed,  howled,  by  turns. 
The  house  jarred  and  creaked,  her  bed  rocked  under  her,  loose 
boards  on  the  roof  clappered  and  rattled,  snow  pelted  the  window- 
shutter.  In  such  a  din  and  tussle  of  the  elements  lay  the  child.  She 
had  no  sister  to  nestle  with  her,  and  snug  her  up  ;  no  gentle  mother 
to  fold  the  sheets  about  her  neck,  and  tuck  in  the  bed  ;  no  watchful 
father  to  come  with  a  light,  and  see  that  all  was  safe. 

In  the  fearfulness  of  that  night,  she  sung  or  said  to  herself  some 
words  of  the  Master's,  which  he,  however,  must  have  given  her  fora 
different  purpose,  —  for  of  needs  must  a  stark  child's  nature  in  such 
a  crisis  appeal  to  something  above  and  superior  to  itself,  —  and  she 
has  taken  a  floating  impression  that  the  higher  agencies,  whatever 
they  might  be,  existed  in  Latin. 

'•  O  sanctissima,  O  purissima, 
Dulcis  Virgo  Maria, 
Mater  amata,  intemerata  ! 
Ora,  ora,  pro  nobis  !  " 

As  she  slept  amid  the  passion  of  the  storm,  softly  did  the  snow 
from  the  roof  distil  upon  her  feet,  and  sweetly  did  dreams  from 
heaven  descend  into  her  soul.  In  her  dream  she  was  walking  in  a 
large,  high,  self-illuminated  hall,  with  flowers,  statues,  and  columns 
on  either  side.  Above,  it  seemed  to  vanish  into  a  sort  of  opaline- 
colored  invisibility.  The  statues,  of  clear  white  marble,  large  as 
life,  and  the  flowers  in  marble  -vases,  alternated  with  each  other 
between  the  columns,  whose  ornamented  capitals  merged  in  the 
shadows  above.  There  was  no  distinct,  articulate  voice,  but  a  low 
murmuring  of  the  air,  or  sort  of  musical  pulsation,  that  filled  the 
place.  The  statues  seemed  to  be,  for  the  most  part,  marble  embodi- 
ments of  pictures  she  had  seen  in  the  Master's  books.  There  were 
the  Venus  de  Medicis  ;  Diana,  with  her  golden  bow  ;  Ceres,  with 
poppies  and  ears  of  corn  ;  Humanity,  "  with  sweet  and  lovely  coun- 
tenance ; "  Temperance,  pouring  water  from  a  pitcher  ;  Diligence, 
with  a  sickle  and  sheaf ;  Peace,  and  her  crown  of  olives  ;  Truth, 
with  "  her  looks  serene,  pleasant,  courteous,  cheerful,  and  yet  mod- 


3Q2       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

est."  The  flowers  were  such  as  she  had  sometimes  seen  about 
houses  in  the  village,  but  of  rare  size  and  beauty  —  cactuses,  dahlias, 
carnations,  large  pink  hydrangeas,  white  japonicas,  calla  lilies,  and 
others.  Their  shadows  waved  on  the  white  walls,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  as  if  the  music  she  heard  issued  from  their  cups. 

Sauntering  along  she  came  to  a  marble  arch  or  doorway,  hand- 
somely sculptured,  and  supported  on  caryatides.  This  opened  to  a 
large  rotunda,  where  she  saw  nine  beautiful  female  figures  swimming 
in  a  circle  in  the  air.  These  strewed  on  her,  as  she  passed,  leaves 
and  flowers  of  amaranth,  angelica,  myrtle,  white  jasmin,  white  poppy, 
and  eglantine  ;  and  spun  round  and  round  silently  as  swallows.  By 
a  similar  arch,  she  went  into  another  rotunda,  where  was  a  marble 
monument  or  sarcophagus,  from  which  two  marble  children  with 
wings  wer£  represented  as  rising,  and  above  them  fluttered  two  iris- 
colored  butterflies.  Through  another  doorway  she  entered  a  larger 
space,  opening  to  the  heavens.  In  this  she  saw  a  woman,  the  same 
woman  she  had  before  seen  in  her  dreams,  with  long  black  hair,  and 
a  pale,  beautiful  face,  who  stood  silently  pointing  to  a  figure  far  off 
on  the  rose-colored  clouds.  This  figure  was  Christ,  whom  she 
recognized.  Near  him,  on  the  round  top  of  a  purple  cloud,  having 
the  blue  distant  sky  for  a  background,  was  the  milk-wh'ite  Cross, 
twined  with  evergreens  ;  about  it,  hand  in  hand,  she  saw  moving,  as 
in  a  distance,  four  beautiful  female  figures,  clothed  in  white  robes. 
These  she  remembered  as  the  ones  she  saw  in  her  dream  at  the 
Stile,  and  she  now  knew  them-  to  be  Faith,  Hope,  Love,  and  their 
sister,  who  was  yet  of  their  own  creation,  Beauty.,  Then  in  her 
dream  she  returned,  and  at  the  door  where  she  entered  this  myste- 
rious place,  she  found  a  large  green  bull-frog,  with  great  goggle  eyes, 
having  a  pond-lily  saddled  to  his  back.  Seating  herself  in  the  cup, 
she  held  on  by  the  golden  pistils  as  the  pommel  of  a  saddle,  and  the 
frog  leaped  with  her  clear  into  the  next  morning,  in  her  own  little 
dark  chamber.  When  she  awoke  the  wind  and  noise  without  had 
ceased.  A  perfect  cone  of  pure  white  snow  lay  piled  up  over  her 
feet,  and  she  attributed  her  dream  partly  to  that.  She  opened  the 
window-shutter  ;  it  was  even  then  snowing  in  large,  quiet,  moist 
flakes,  which  showed  that  the  storm  was  nearly  at  an  end  ;  and  in 
the  east,  near  the  sun-rising,  she  saw  the  clouds  bundling  up,  ready 
to  go  away. 


HENRY   THEODORE   TUCKERMAN.  393 


HENRY   THEODORE   TUCKERMAN. 

Henry  Theodore  Tuckerman  was  born  in  Boston,  April  20,  18*3.  He  was  educated  in 
the  public  schools,  and  went  abroad  in  his  twentieth  year.  Travel  and  observation,  with 
private  reading  and  study,  supplied  the  place  of  university  training.  He  removed  from 
Boston  to  New  York  in  1845,  where  he  resided  until  his  death,  which  occurred  December* 
17,  1871.  Mr.  Tuckerman  was  an  indefatigable  and  voluminous  writer;  very  few  authors 
have  put  so  much  on  paper  or  in  print.  He  published  a  volume  of  poems,  which  show  a 
cultivated  taste  and  considerable  poetic  feeling.  He  has  also  written  several  memoirs  and 
biographies  ;  but  his  chief  employment  was  that  of  essayist,  literary  and  art  critic,  and 
narrator  of  the  lighter  incidents  of  travel.  His  appreciative  feeling,  good  taste,  and  long 
practice  gave  him  the  skill,  and  his  pleasant  habit  of  observation  and  retentive  memory 
furnished  the  materials.  He  never  probed  a  subject  deeply,  never  developed  principles, 
except  very  obvious  ones,  was  never  strongly  graphic  in  description,  nor  keen  in  analysis ; 
but  the  stream  of  his  prose  ran  smoothly  on  until  the  salient  points  of  his  theme  were  pleasantly 
touched  upon,  and  its  associations  were  gracefully  hinted  at ;  and  the  reader,  without  fatigue, 
closed  the  book  with  the  thought  that  he  had  spent  an  hour  with  more  or  less  profit  in  the 
company  of  an  amiable,  well-informed,  and  well-bred  man  of  the  world. 

The  reader  will  infer  that  such  an  author  does  not  belong  to  the  class  of  original  creators 
of  literature.  But  these  critical  writers  have  their  well-established  place  and  their  duties  in 
the  kingdom  of  letters.  The  list  of  Mr.  Tuckerman's  works  will  show  the  amount  and  kind 
of  service  he  performed:  The  Italian  Sketch  Book  (1835);  Isabel,  or  Sicily,  a  Pilgrimage 
(1839)  :  Rambles  and  Reviews  (1841)  ;  Thoughts  on  the  Poets  (1846);  Characteristics  of 
Literature  (1849-1851)  ;  Sketch  of  American  Literature,  Mental  Portraits  or  Studies  of 
Character,  Life  of  Commodore  Silas  Talbot  (1850)  ;  The  Optimist  (1850) ;  Poems  (1851)  ;  A 
Month  in  England  (1853) ;  A  Memorial  of  Horatio  Greenough  (1853) ;  Leaves  from  the 
Diary  of  a  Dreamer  (1853) ;  Biographical  Essays  (1857) ;  Essay  on  Washington  (1859) ;  A 
Sheaf  of  Verse  (1864) :  America  and  her  Commentators,  with  a  Critical  Sketch  of  Travel  in 
the  United  States  (1864) ;  The  Criterion  (1866) ;  Book  of  the  Artists  (1867) ;  Maga  Papers 
about  Paris  (1867) ;  Artist- Life,  or  Sketches  of  American  Painters ;  Life  of  J.  P.  Kennedy 
(1871-) 

[From  Historical  Studies.] 

DANIEL   BOONE. 

IT  was  a  fond  boast  with  him  that  the  first  white  women  that  ever 
stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Kentucky  River  were  his  wife  and  daughter, 
and  that  his  axe  cleft  the  first  tree  whose  timbers  laid  the  foundation 
of  a  permanent  settlement  in  the  state.  He  had  the  genuine  ambi- 
tion of  a  pioneer,  and  the  native  taste  for  life  in  the  woods  embodied 
in  the  foresters  of  Scott  and  the  Leather-stocking  of  Cooper.  He 
possessed  that  restless  impulse,  —  the  instinct  of  adventure,  —  the 
poetry  of  action.  It  has  been  justly  said  that  "  he  was  seldom  taken 
by  surprise,  never  shrank  from  danger,  nor  cowered  beneath  ex- 
posure and  fatigue."  So  accurate  were  his  woodland  observations 
and  memory,  that  he  recognized  an  ash  tree  which  he  had  notched 
twenty  years  before,  to  identify  a  locality,  and  proved  the  accuracy 
of  his  designation  by  stripping  off  the  new  bark,  and  exposing  the 
marks  of  his  axe  beneath.  His  aim  was  so  certain,  that  he  could 


394  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

with  ease  bark  a  squirrel ;  that  is,  bring  down  the  animal,  when  on 
the  top  of  the  loftiest  tree,  by  knocking  off  the  bark  immediately 
beneath,  killing  him  by  the  concussion.  .  .  . 

We  have  followed  his  musing  steps  through  the  wide,  umbrageous 
solitudes  he  loved,  and  marked  the  contentment  he  experienced  in  a 
*log  hut,  and  by  a  camp-fire  ;  but  over  this  attractive  picture  there 
ever  impended  the  shadow  of  peril,  in  the  form  of  a  stealthy  and 
cruel  foe,  the  wolf,  disease,  and  exposure  to  the  elements.  Enraged 
at  the  invasion  of  their  ancient  hunting-grounds,  the  Indians  hov- 
ered near  ;  while  asleep  in  the  jungle,  following  the  plough,  or  at  his 
frugal  meal,  the  pioneer  was  liable  to  be  shot  down  by  an  unseen 
rifle,  and  surrounded  by  an  ambush  ;  from  the  tranquil  pursuits  of 
agriculture,  at  any  moment,  he  might  be  summoned  to  the  battle- 
field, to  rescue  a  neighbor's  property,  or  defend  a  solitary  outpost. 
The  senses  became  acute,  the  mind  vigilant,  and  the  tone  of  feeling 
chivalric,  under  such  discipline.  That  life  has  a  peculiar  dignity, 
even  in  the  midst  of  privation,  and  however  devoid  of  refined  cul- 
ture, which  is  entirely  self-independent  both  for  sustainment  and 
protection.  It  has,  too,  a  singular  freshness  and  animation,  the 
more  genial  from  being  naturally  inspired.  Compare  the  spasmodic 
efforts  at  hilarity,  the  forced  speech  and  hackneyed  expression  of 
the  fashionable  drawing-room,  with  the  candid  mirth  and  gallant 
spirit  born  of  the  woodland  and  the  chase,  —  the  powerful  sinews 
and  well-braced  nerves  of  the  pioneer  with  the  languid  pulse  of  the 
metropolitan  exquisite,  —  and -it  seems  as  if  the  fountain  of  youth 
still  bubbled  up  in  some  deep  recess  of  the  forest.  Philosophy,  too, 
as  well  as  health,  is  attainable  in  the  woods,  as  Shakespeare  has 
illustrated  in  As  You  Like  It,  and  Boone  by  his  example  and  habit- 
ual sentiments.  He  said  to  his  brother,  when  they  had  lived  for 
months  in  the  yet  unexplored  wilds  of  Kentucky,  "  You  see  how 
little  human  nature  requires.  It  is  in  our  own  hearts,  rather  than  in 
the  things  around  us,  that  we  are  to  seek  felicity.  A  man  may  be 
happy  in  any  state.  It  only  needs  a  perfect  resignation  to  the  will  of 
Providence."  It  is  remarkable  that  the  two  American  characters 
which  chiefly  interested  Byron  were  Patrick  Henry  and  Daniel 
Boone  —  the  one  for  his  gift  of  oratory,  and  the  other  for  his  phil- 
osophical content,  both  so  directly  springing  from  the  resources  of 
nature.  .  . 

To  one  having  but  an  inkling  of  this  sympathy  with  nature,  with  a 
nervous  organization  and  an  observant  mind,  there  is,  indeed,  no 
restorative  of  the  frame,  or  sweet  diversion  to  the  mind,  like  a  day 


JOHN    LOTHROP    MOTLEY.  395 

in  the  woods.  The  effect  of  roaming  a  treeless  plain,  or  riding  over 
a  Cultivated  region,  is  entirely  different.  There  is  a  certain  tranquil- 
lity and  balm  in  the  forest  that  heals  and  calms  the  fevered  spirit, 
and  quickens  the  languid  pulses  of  the  weary  and  the  disheartened 
with  the  breath  of  hope.  Its  influence  on  the  animal  spirits  is 
remarkable  ;  and  the  senses,  released  from  the  din  and  monotonous' 
limits  of  streets  and  houses,  luxuriate  in  the  breadth  of  vision,  and 
the  rich  variety  of  form,  hue,  and  odor,  which  only  scenes  like  these 
afford.  As  we  walk  in  the  shadow  of  lofty  trees,  the  repose  and 
awe  of  heart  that  breathe  from  a  sacred  temple  gradually  lull  the 
tide  of  care,  and  exalt  despondency  into  worship.  .  .  . 

If  such  refreshment  and  inspiration  are  obtainable  from  a  casual 
and  temporary  visit  to  the  woods,  we  may  imagine  the  effect  of  a 
lengthened  sojourn  in  the  primeval  forest  upon  a  nature  alive  to  its 
beauty,  wildness,  and  solitude ;  and  when  we  add  to  these  the  zest 
of  adventure,  the  pride  of  discovery,  and  that  feeling  of  sublimity 
which  arises  from  a  consciousness  of  danger  always  impending,  it  is 
easy  to  realize  in  the  experience  of  a  pioneer  at  once  the  most 
romantic  and  practical  elements  of  life.  In  American  history,  rich 
as  it  is  in  this  species  of  adventure,  no  individual  is  so  attractive  and 
prominent  as  Daniel  Boone.  The  singular  union  in  his  character  of 
benevolence  and  hardihood,  bold  activity,  and  a  meditative  disposi- 
tion, the  hazardous  enterprises  and  narrow  escapes  recorded  of  him, 
and  the  resolute  tact  he  displayed  in  all  emergencies,  are  materials 
quite  adequate  to  a  thrilling  narrative ;  but  when  we  add  to  the 
external  phases  of  interest  that  absolute  passion  for  forest  life  which 
distinguished  him,  and  the  identity  of  his  name  with  the  early 
fortunes  of  the  west,  he  seems  to  combine  the  essential  features  of 
a  genuine  historical  and  thoroughly, individual  character. 


JOHN   LOTHROP   MOTLEY. 

John  Lothrop  Motley  was  born  in  Dorchester,  Mass.,  April  15,  1814.  He  was  graduated  at 
Harvard  College  in  1831,  and  then  spent  two  years  in  German  universities,  and  afterwards 
some  time  in  travel.  On  his  return  he  studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  Boston 
(1836),  but  soon  quitted  the  profession.  In  1839  he  published  a  novel,  entitled  Morton's 
Hope.  In  1840  he  was  appointed  secretary  of  legation  to  the  American  embassy  at  St. 
Petersburg,  which  place  he  held  only  for  a  short  time.  In  1849  he  published  a  second  his- 
(orical  novel,  entitled  Merry  Mount,  a  Romance  of  the  Massachusetts  Colony.  He  con- 
Jributed  several  admirable  historical  and  critical  papers  to  the  reviews.  Becoming  interested 
in  the  history  of  Holland,  he  commenced  a  work  on  the  subject,  and  in  1851  went  abroad  to 
gather  fuller  materials.  He  passed  five  years  in  the  chief  capitals  of  Europe  in  his  re- 


396 


HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


searches,  and  in  1856  published,  in  London,  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic.  This  work 
gave  him  an  assured  place  among  historians.  It  was  reprinted  in  New  York,  and  transla- 
tions of  it  appeared  in  Holland,  Germany,  and  France,  the  French  translation  being  intro- 
duced by  Guizot.  Mr.  Motley  visited  this  country  in  1857,  and  was  one  of  the  company  of 
authors  by  whom  the  Atlantic  Monthly  was  established.  He  commenced  his  studies  for  a 
continuation  of  his  history,  but  soon  found  that  the  necessary  books  and  manuscripts  must 
be  studied  in  Europe.  Accordingly  he  returned  and  made  the  most  thorough  examination 
of  the  collections  of  state  papers  at  Brussels,  including  full  copies  from  the  Spanish  archives 
of  Simancas,  and  an  immense  mass  of  English  correspondence  never  before  made  public. 
He  continued  his  studies  with  equal  success  at  Venice,  Paris,  and  other  places.  The  first  part 
of  his  work,  The  History  of  the  United  Netherlands,  appeared  in  two  volumes  in  1861,  and 
the  remaining  part,  in  two  volumes  also,  in  1868.  The  history  of  Holland  during  the  period 
treated  by  Mr.  Motley  is  the  history  of  European  liberty.  Every  nation  was  in  some  way 
concerned  in  the  great  struggle  between  Spain  and  the  Netherlands.  The  characters  of 
Philip  II.,  of  his  great  minister,  Cardinal  Granvelle,  of  his  sister,  Margaret  of  Parma,  and 
of  his  great  general,  the  infamous  Duke  of  Alva,  as  well  as  the  principles  and  policy  of  the 
Spanish  government,  are  painted  in  the  strongest  colors.  English  history  also  has  a  new 
illumination  from  this  work,  and  the  reader  will  probably  get  a  more  vivid  and  accurate  con- 
ception of  the  vain  and  vacillating  Queen  Elizabeth,  of  the  unprincipled  Earl  of  Leicester, 
of  Lord  Burghley,  Walsingham,  Drake,  and  other  prominent  persons  of  the  period  than  can 
be  gained  from  any  other  source.  Of  famous  Hollanders  and  Flemings  the  historian  has 
made  a  national  portrait  gallery. 

The  execution  of  the  work  is  in  keeping  with  the  grandeur  of  the  subject.  The  immense 
mass  of  details  which  would  fatally  encumber  an  inferior  writer  are  grouped  with  a  view  to 
their  collective  effect ;  and  we  are  enabled  to  follow,  as  in  a  romance,  the  popular  leaders  — 
heroes  and  martyrs  both  —  in  their  long  and  desperate  struggle  against  the  intrigues  of  ec- 
clesiastics, the  brutality  of  a  fanatical  soldiery,  and  the  selfish  craft  of  kings.  Motley  is  fond 
of  portraying  scenes  of  magnificence,  and  of  marshalling  events  in  dramatic  order.  His 
style  of  narration  is  vivid,  but  lacking  in  simplicity.  His  honorable  sympathy  with  free 
principles  and  his  hatred  of  oppression  and  wrong  tend  to  disturb  the  philosophic  repose  of 
style,  and  his  pages  often  show  the  tumult  of  feeling  in  the  swollen  torrents  of  words.  He 
makes  a  keen  analysis  of  character,  but  there  is  a  redundancy,  or  rather  a  repetition, 
especially  in  the  descriptions  of  William  of  Orange,  and  in  the  moral  reflections  occurring  at 
great  crises,  that  is  apt  in  the  end  to  become  tiresome.  But  in  spite  of  minor  faults  his 
history  is  nearer  to  being  great  than  any  yet  written  in  this  country. 

Mr.  Motley  was  appointed  minister  to  Austria  in  November,  1866,  and  was  recalled  in 
1867.  He  was  minister  to  England  from  April,  1869,  to  November,  1870,  when  he  was  dis- 
placed No  American  abroad  has  more  steadfastly  upheld  the  principles  of  democracy  and 
the  honor  of  his  country. 

Mr.  Motley  is  now  residing  at  the  Hague,  occupying  a  house  tendered  to  him  by  the 
Queen  of  Holland.  A  continuation  of  his  history  is  to  be  expected  at  no  distant  day. 

[From  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic.] 

THE  ABDICATION  OF  CHARLES  V.  IN  FAVOR  OF  HIS  SON,  PHILIP  II., 
AT  BRUSSELS,  August  27,  1556. 

THE  gay  capital  of  Brabant  —  of  that  province  which  rejoiced  in 
the  liberal  constitution  known  by  the  cheerful  title  of  the  "joyful 
entrance"  —  was  worthy  to  be  the  scene  of  the  imposing  show. 
Brussels  had  been  a  city  for  more  than  five  centuries,  and  at  that 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY.  39/ 

day  numbered  about  one  hundred  thousand  inhabitants.  Its  walls, 
six  miles  in  circumference,  were  already  two  hundred  years  old. 
Unlike  most  Netherland  cities,  lying  usually  upon  extensive  plains, 
it  was  built  along  the  sides  of  an  abrupt  promontory.  A  wide 
expanse  of  living  verdure,  cultivated  gardens,  shady  groves,  fertile 
cornfields,  flowed  round  it  like  a  sea.  The  foot  of  the  town  was 
washed  by  the  little  river  Senne,  while  the  irregular  but  picturesque 
streets  rose  up  the  steep  sides  of  the  hill  like  the  semicircles  and 
stairways  of  an  amphitheatre.  Nearly  in  the  heart  of  the  place  rose 
che  audacious  and  exquisitely  embroidered  tower  of  the  town-house, 
three  hundred  and  sixty-six  feet  in  height,  a  miracle  of  needlework  in 
atone,  rivalling  in  its  intricate  carving  the  cobweb  tracery  of  that 
lace  which  has  for  centuries  been  synonymous  with  the  city,  and 
rearing  itself  above  the  facade  of  profusely  decorated  and  brocaded 
architecture.  The  crest  of  the  elevation  was  crowned  by  the  towers 
of  the  old  ducal  palace  of  Brabant,  with  its  extensive  and  thickly- 
wooded  park  on  the  left,  and  by  the  stately  mansions  of  Orange, 
Egmont,  Aremberg,  Culemburg,  and  other  Flemish  grandees,  on 
the  right.  The  great  forest  of  Soignies,  dotted  with  monasteries 
and  convents,  swarming  with  every  variety  of  game,  whither  the 
citizens  made  their  summer  pilgrimages,  and  where  the  nobles 
chased  the  wild  boar  and  the  stag,  extended  to  within  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  of  the  city  walls.  .  .  . 

The  hall  was  celebrated  for  its  size,  harmonious 'proportions,  and 
the  richness  of  its  decorations.  It  was  the  place  where  the  chapters 
of  the  famous  order  of  the  Golden  Fleece  were  held.  Its  walls  were 
hung  with  a  magnificent  tapestry  of  Arras,  representing  the  life  and 
achievements  of  Gideon,  the  Midianite,  and  giving  particular  prom- 
inence to  the  miracle  of  the  "  fleece  of  wool,"  vouchsafed  to  that 
renowned  champion,  the  great  patron  of  the  Knights  of  the  Fleece. 
On  the  present  occasion  there  were  various  additional  embellish- 
ments of  flowers  and  votive  garlands.  At  the  western  end  a 
spacious  platform  or  stage,  with  six  or  seven  steps,  had  been  con- 
structed, below  which  was  a  range  of  benches  for  the  deputies  of  the 
seventeen  provinces.  Upon  the  stage  itself  there  were  rows  of 
seats,  covered  with  tapestry,  upon  the  right  hand  and  upon  the  left. 
These  were  respectively  to  accommodate  the  knights  of  the  order 
and  the  guests  of  high  distinction.  In  the  rear  of  these  were  other 
benches,  for  the  members  of  the  three  great  councils.  In  the  centre 
of  the  stage  was  a  splendid  canopy,  decorated  with  the  arms  of 
Burgundy,  beneath  which  were  placed  three  gilded  arm-chairs.  .  .  . 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

As  the  clock  struck  three,  the  hero  of  the  scene  appeared.  Caesar, 
as  he  was  always  designated  in  the  classic  language  of  the  day, 
entered,  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  William  of  Orange.  They 
came  from  the  chapel,  and  were  immediately  followed  by  Philip  II. 
and  Queen  Mary  of  Hungary.  The  Archduke  Maximilian,  the 
Duke  of  Savoy,  and  other  great  personages,  came  afterwards,  ac- 
companied by  a  glittering  throng  of  warriors,  councillors,  governors, 
and  Knights  of  the  Fleece.  .  .  . 

All  the  company  present  had  risen  to  their  feet  as  the  emperor 
entered.  By  his  command,  all  immediately  afterwards  resumed  their 
places.  The  benches  at  either  end  of  the  platform  were  accordingly 
filled  with  the  royal  and  princely  personages  invited,  with  the  Fleece 
Knights,  wearing  the  insignia  of  their  order,  with  the  members  of 
the  three  great  councils,  and  with  the  governors.  The  Emperor,  the 
King  and  the  Queen  of  Hungary,  were  left  conspicuous  in  the  centre 
of  the  scene.  As  the  whole  object  of  the  ceremony  was  to  present  an 
impressive  exhibition,  it  is  worth  our  while  to  examine  minutely  the 
appearance  of  the  two  principal  characters. 

Charles  V.  was  then  fifty-five  years  and  eight  months  old  ;  but  he 
was  already  decrepit  with  premature  old  age.  He  was  of  about  the 
middle  height,  and  had  been  athletic  and  well  proportioned.  Broad 
in  the  shoulders,  deep  in  the  chest,  thin  in  the  flank,  very*muscular 
in  the  arms  and  legs,  he  had  been  able  to  match  himself  with  all 
competitors  in  the  tourney  and  the  ring,  and  to  vanquish  the  bull 
with  his  own  hand  in  the  favorite  national  amusement  of  Spain. 
He  had  been  able  in  the  field  to  do  the  duty  of  captain  and  soldier, 
to  endure  fatigue  and  exposure,  and  every  privation  except  fasting. 
These  personal  advantages  were  now  departed.  Crippled  in  hands, 
knees,  and  legs,  he  supported  himself  with  difficulty  upon  a  crutch, 
with  the  aid  of  an  attendant's  shoulder.  In  face  he  had  always  been 
extremely  ugly,  and  time  had  certainly  not  improved  his  physiog- 
nomy. His  hair,  once  of  a  light  color,  was  now  white  with  age, 
close-clipped  and  bristling  ;  his  beard  was  gray,  coarse,  and  shaggy. 
His  forehead  was  spacious  and  commanding ;  the  eye  was  dark-blue, 
with  an  expression  both  majestic  and  benignant.  His  nose  was 
aquiline,  but  crooked.  The  lower  part  of  his  face  was  famous  for  its 
deformity.  The  under  lip,  a  Burgundian  inheritance,  as  faithfully 
transmitted  as  the  duchy  and  county,  was  heavy  and  hanging ;  the 
lower  jaw  protruding  so  far  beyond  the  upper,  that  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  bring  together  the  few  fragments  of  teeth  which  still 
remained,  or  to  speak  a  whole  sentence  in  an  intelligible  voice. 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY.  399 

Eating  and  talking  —  occupations  to  which  he  was  always  much 
addicted  —  were  becoming  daily  more  arduous,  in  consequence  of 
this  original  defect,  which  now  seemed  hardly  human,  but  rather 
an  original  deformity. 

So  much  for  the  father.  The  son,  Philip  II.,  was  a  small,  meagre 
man,  much  below  the  middle  height,  wjth  thin  legs,  a  narrow  chest, 
and  the  shrinking,  timid  air  of  an  habitual  invalid.  He  seemed  so 
little,  upon  his  first  visit  to  his  aunts,  the  Queens  Eleanor  and  Mary, 
accustomed  to  look  upon  proper  men  in  Flanders  and  Germany,  that 
he  was  fain  to  win  their  favor  by  making  certain  attempts  in  the  tour- 
nament, in  which  his  success  was  sufficiently  problematical.  .  .  . 

In  face,  he  was  the  living  image  of  his  father,  having  the  same 
broad  forehead  and  blue  eye,  with  the  same  aquiline,  but  better 
proportioned,  nose.  In  the  lower  part  of  the  countenance,  the 
remarkable  Burgundian  deformity  was  likewise  reproduced.  He 
had  the  same  heavy,  hanging  lip,  with  a  vast  mouth,  and  monstrous- 
ly protruding  lower  jaw.  His  complexion  was  fair,  his  hair  light  and 
thin,  his  beard  yellow,  short,  and  pointed.  He  had  the  aspect  of  a 
Fleming,  but  the  loftiness  of  a  Spaniard.  His  demeanor  in  public 
was  still,  silent,  almost  sepulchral.  He  looked  habitually  on  the 
ground  when  he  conversed,  was  chary  of  speech,  embarrassed,  and 
even  suffering  in  manner.  This  was  ascribed  partly  to  a  natural 
haughtiness  which  he  had  occasionally  endeavored  to  overcome,  and 
partly  to  habitual  pains  in  the  stomach,  occasioned  by  his  inordinate 
fondness  for  pastry. 

Such  was  the  personal  appearance  of  the  man  who  was  about  to 
receive  into  his  single  hand  the  destinies  of  half  the  world  ;  whose 
single  will  was,  for  the  future,  to  shape  the  fortunes  of  every 
individual  then  present,  of  many  millions  more  in  Europe,  America, 
and  at  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  of  countless  millions  yet  unborn. 

The  three  royal  personages  being  seated  upon  chairs  placed  tri- 
angularly under  the  canopy,  such  of  the  audience  as  had  seats 
provided  for  them,  now  took  their  places,  and  the  proceedings  com- 
menced. Philibert  de  Bruxelles,  a  member  of  the  privy  council  of 
the  Netherlands,  arose  at  the  emperor's  command,  and  made  a  long 
oration.  He  spoke  of  the  emperor's  warm  affection  for  the  provinces, 
as  the  land  of  his  birth  ;  of  his  deep  regret  that  his  broken  health 
and  failing  powers,  both  of  body  and  mind,  compelled  him  to  resign 
his  sovereignty,  and  to  seek  relief  for  his  shattered  frame  in  a  more 
genial  climate.  .  .  . 

After  this  long  harangue,  which  has  been  fully  reported  by  several 


400  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

historians  who  were  present  at  the  ceremonv,  the  councillor  pro- 
ceeded to  read  the  deed  of  cession,  by  which  Philip,  already  sove- 
reign of  Sicily,  Naples,  Milan,  and  titular  King  of  England,  France, 
and  Jerusalem,  now  received  all  the  duchies,  marquisates,  earldoms, 
baronies,  cities,  towns,  and  castles  of  the  Burgundian  property,  in- 
cluding, of  course,  the  seventeen  Netherlands.  .  .  . 

The  emperor  then  rose  to  his  feet.  Leaning  on  his  crutch,  he 
beckoned  from  his  seat  the  personage  upon  whose  arm  he  had 
leaned  as  he  entered  the  hall.  A  tall,  handsome  youth  of  twenty- 
two  came  forward  —  a  man  whose  name  from  that  time  forward,  and 
as  long  as  history  shall  endure,  has  been,  and  will  be,  more  familiar 
than  any  other  in  the  mouths  of  Netherlanders.  At  that  day  he  had 
rather  a  southern  than  a  German  or  Flemish  appearance.  He  had 
a  Spanish  cast  of  features,  dark,  well  chiselled,  and  symmetrical. 
His  head  was  small  and  well  placed  upon  his  shoulders.  His  hair 
was  dark-brown,  as  were  also  his  mustache  and  peaked  beard.  His 
forehead  was  lofty,  spacious,  and  already  permanently  engraved  with 
the  anxious  lines  of  thought.  His  eyes  were  full,  brown,  well  opened, 
and  expressive  of  profound  reflection.  He  was  dressed  in  the  mag- 
nificent apparel  for  which  the  Netherlanders  were  celebrated  above 
all  other  nations,  and  which  the  ceremony  rendered  necessary.  .  .  . 

Thus  supported  on  his  crutch  and  upon  the  shoulder  of  William 
of  Orange,  the  emperor  proceeded  to  address  the  states,  by  the  aid 
of  a  closely  written  brief  which  he  held  in  his  hand.  He  reviewed 
rapidly  the  progress  of  events  from  his  seventeenth  year  up  to 
that  day.  .  .  . 

He  sketched  his  various  wars,  victories,  and  treaties  of  peace, 
assuring  his  hearers  that  the  welfare  of  his  subjects  and  the  security 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  religion  had  ever  been  the  leading  objects  of 
his  life.  As  long  as  God  had  granted  him  health,  he  continued, 
only  enemies  could  have  regretted  that  Charles  was  living  and 
reigning ;  but  now  that  his  strength  was  but  vanity,  and  life  fast 
ebbing  away,  his  love  for  dominion,  his  affection  for  his  subjects, 
and  his  regard  for  their  interests,  required  his  departure.  Instead 
of  a  decrepit  man,  with  one  foot  in  the  grave,  he  presented  them  with 
a  sovereign  in  the  prime  of  life  and  the  vigor  of  health.  .  .  . 

Posterity  would  applaud  his  abdication,  should  his  son  prove 
worthy  of  his  bounty  ;  and  that  could  only  be  by  living  in  the  fear  of 
God,  and  by  maintaining  law,  justice,  and  the  Catholic  religion  in  all 
their  purity,  as  the  true  foundation  of  the  realm.  In  conclusion,  he 
entreated  the  estates,  and  through  them  the  nation,  to  render  obe- 


JOHN    LOTHROP    MOTLEY.  4<DI 

dience  to.  their  new  prince,  to  maintain  concord,  and  to  preserve 
inviolate  the  Catholic  faith  ;  begging  them,  at  the  same  time,  to 
pardon  him  all  errors  or  offences  which  he  might  have  committed 
towards  them  during  his  reign,  and  assuring  them  that  he  should 
unceasingly  remember  their  obedience  and  affection  in  his  every 
prayer  to  that  Being  to  whom  the  remainder  of  his  life  was  to  be 
dedicated.  .  . 

Sobs  were  heard  throughout  every  portion  of  the  hall,  and  tears 
flowed  profusely  from  every  eye.  The  Fleece  Knights  on  the  plat- 
form and  the  burghers  in  the  background  were  all  melted  with  the 
same  emotion.  As  for  the  emperor  himself,  he  sank  almost  faint- 
ing on  his  chair  as  he  concluded  his  address.  An  ashy  paleness 
overspread  his  countenance,  and  he  wept  like  a  child.  Even  the  icy 
Philip  was  almost  softened,  as  he  rose  to  perform  his  part  in  the 
ceremony.  Dropping  upon  his  knees  before  his  father's  feet,  he 
reverently  kissed  his  hand. 

Charles  placed  his  hands  solemnly  on  his  son's  head,  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross,  and  blessed  him  in  the  name  of  the  Holy  Trinity. 
Then  raising  him  in  his  arms,  he  tenderly  embraced  him,  saying,  as 
he  did  so,  to  the  great  potentates  around  him,  that  he  felt  a  sincere 
compassion  for  the  son  on  whose  shoulders  so  heavy  a  weight  had 
just  devolved,  and  which  only  a  life-long  labor  would  enable  him  to 
support.  .  .  . 

The  orations  and  replies  having  now  been  brought  to  a  close,  the 
ceremony  was  terminated.  The  emperor,  leaning  on  the  shoulders 
of  the  Prince  of  Orange  and  of  the  Count  de  Buren,  slowly  left  the 
hall,  followed  by  Philip,  the  Queen  of  Hungary,  and  the  whole 
court ;  all  in  the  same  order  in  which  they  had  entered,  and  by  the 
passage  into  the  chapel. 

It  is  obvious  that  the  drama  had  been  completely  successful.  It 
had  been  a  scene  where  heroic  self-sacrifice,  touching  confidence, 
ingenuous  love  of  duty,  patriotism,  and  paternal  affection  upon  one 
side,  —  filial  reverence,  with  a  solemn  regard  for  public  duty  and  the 
highest  interests  of  the  people  on  the  other,  — were  supposed  to  be 
the  predominant  sentiments.  The  happiness  of  the  Netherlands 
was  apparently  the  only  object  contemplated  in  the  great  transac- 
tion. All  had  played  well  their  parts  in  the  past,  all  hoped  the 
best  in  the  times  which  were  to  follow.  The  abdicating  emperor  was 
looked  upon  as  a  hero  and  a  prophet.  The  stage  was  drowned 
in  tears.  .  .  . 

And  yet  what  was  the  Emperor  Charles  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
26 


4O2       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Netherlands,  that  they  should  weep  for  him  ?  His  conduct  towards 
them  during  his  whole  career  had  been  one  of  unmitigated  oppres- 
sion. What  to  them  were  all  these  forty  voyages  by  sea  and  land, 
these  journeyings  back  and  forth  from  Friesland  to  Tunis,  from 
Madrid  to  Vienna  ?  What  was  it  to  them  that  the  imperial  shuttle 
was  thus  industriously  flying  to  and  fro?  The  fabric  wrought  was 
but  the  daily  growing  grandeur  and  splendor  of  his  imperial  house  ; 
the  looms  were  kept  moving  at  the  expense  of  their  hardly-earned 
treasure,  and  the  woof  was  often  dyed  red  in  the  blood  of  his 
bravest  subjects. 


RICHARD   HENRY   DANA,  JR. 

Richard  Henry  Dana,  Jr.  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  August  i,  1815,  and  was  grad- 
uated at  Harvard  College  in  1837.  In  1834,  while  in  college,  he  suffered  from  an  affection  of 
the  eyes,  and  left  his  studies  for  a  sea  voyage.  He  shipped  as  a  common  sailor  in  a  vessel 
bound  for  California,  then  an  unsettled  country,  and  on  his  return  published  his  expe- 
riences in  a  book  entitled  Two  Years  before  the  Mast.  This  has  had  an  enormous  circula- 
tion, both  in  England  and  America,  for  over  thirty  years,  and  is  still  almost  as  popular  as 
Robinson  Crusoe.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  Boston  in  1840,  and  has  always  held  a 
leading  position  among  lawyers,  especially  in  admiralty  cases.  He  has  been  a  leading  mem- 
ber of  the  Free-soil  party,  though  he  has  never  held  any  but  local  offices,  except  that  he  was 
United  States  district  attorney  from  1861  to  1866.  He  is  a  member  of  the  Protestant  Epis- 
copal church,  and  has  taken  a  prominent  part  in  the  general  conventions  of  that  body.  In 
1859  he  published  a  volume  entitled  To  Cuba  and  Back. 

[From  Two  Years  before  the  Mast.] 
AN   ICEBERG. 

SATURDAY,  July  2.  This  day  the  sun  rose  fair,  but  it  ran  too  low 
in  the  heavens  to  give  any  heat,  or  thaw  out  our  sails  and  rigging  ; 
yet  the  sight  of  it  was  pleasant,  and  we  had  a  steady  "  reef-topsail 
breeze  "  from  the  westward.  The  atmosphere,  which  had  previously 
been  clear  and  cold,  for  the  last  few  hours  grew  damp,  and  had  a 
disagreeable,  wet  chilliness  in  it ;  and  the  man  who  came  from  the 
wheel  said  he  heard  the  captain  tell  "  the  passenger  "  that  the  ther- 
mometer had  fallen  several  degrees  since  morning,  which  he  could 
not  account  for  in  any  other  way  than  by  supposing  that  there  must 
be  ice  near  us,  though  such  a  thing  was  rarely  heard  of  in  this  lati- 
tude at  this  season  of  the  year.  At  twelve  o'clock  we  went  below, 
and  had  just  got  through  dinner,  when  the  cook  put  his  head  down 
the  scuttle  and  told  us  to  come  on  deck  and  see  the  finest  sight  that 
we  had  ever  seen.  "  Where  away,  doctor  ?  "  asked  the  first  man 
who  was  up.  "  On  the  larboard  bow."  And  there  lay,  floating  in 


RICHARD    HENRY   DANA,   JR.  403 

the  ocean,  several  miles  off,  an  immense,  irregular  mass,  its  top  and 
points  covered  with  snow,  and  its  centre  of  a  deep  indigo  color. 
This  was  an  iceberg,  and  of  the  largest  size,  as  one  of  our  men  said, 
who  had  been  in  the  Northern  Ocean.  As  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  the  sea  in  every  direction  was  of  a  deep  blue  color,  the  waves 
running  high  and  fresh,  and  sparkling  in  the  light ;  and  in  the  midst 
lay  this  immense  mountain-island,  its  cavities  and  valleys  thrown 
into  deep  shade,  and  its  points  and  pinnacles  glittering  in  the  sun. 
All  hands  were  soon  on  deck,  looking  at  it,  and  admiring,  in  various 
ways,  its  beauty  and  grandeur.  But  no  description  can  give  any  idea 
of  the  strangeness,  splendor,  and  really  the  sublimity  of  the  sight. 
Its  great  size, — for  it  must  have  been  from  two  to  three  miles  in 
circumference,  and  several  hundred  feet  in  height,  —  its  slow  motion, 
as  its  base  rose  and  sank  in  the  water,  and  its  high  points  nodded 
against  the  clouds  ;  the  dashing  of  the  waves  upon  it,  which,  break- 
ing high  with  foam,  lined  its  base  with  a  white  crust ;  and  the  thun- 
dering sound  of  the  cracking  of  the  mass,  and  the  breaking  and  tum- 
bling down  of  huge  pieces,  together  with  its  nearness  and  approach, 
which  added  to  a  slight  element  of  fear,  all  combined  to  give  to  it 
the  character  of  true  sublimity.  The  main  body  of  the  mass  was,  as 
I  have  said,  of  an  indigo  color,  its  base  crusted  with  foam,  and,  as  it 
grew  thin  and  transparent  towards  the  edges  and  top,  its  color  shaded 
off  from  a  deep  blue  to  the  whiteness  of  snow.  It  seemed  to  be  drift- 
ing slowly  towards  the  north,  so  that  we  kept  away  and  avoided  it, 
It  was  in  sight  all  the  afternoon,  and  when  we  got  to  leeward  of  it 
the  wind  died  away,  so  that  we  lay  to  quite  near  it  for  a  greater  part 
of  the  night.  Unfortunately,  there  was  no  moon  ;  but  it  was  a  clear 
night,  and  we  could  plainly  mark  the  long,  regular  heaving  of  the 
stupendous  mass,  as  its  edges  moved  slowly  against  the  stars,  now 
revealing  them,  and  now  shutting  them  in.  Several  times  in  our 
watch  loud  cracks  were  heard,  which  sounded  as  though  *  they  must 
have  run  through  the  whole  length  of  the  iceberg,  and  several  pieces 
fell  down  with  a  thundering  crash,  plunging  heavjly  into  the  sea. 
Towards  morning  a  strong  breeze  sprang  up,  and  we  filled  away,  and 
left  it  astern,  and  at  daylight  it  was  out  of  sight. 


A  THUNDER-STORM. 

SUNDAY,  September  4.  ...  The  first  night  after  the  trade 
winds  left  us,  while  we  were  in  the  latitude  of  the  Island  of  Cuba,  we 
had  a  specimen  of  a  true  tropical  thunder-storm.  A  light  breeze  had 


404       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

been  blowing  from  aft  during  the  first  part  of  the  night,  which  grad- 
ually died  away,  and  before  midnight  it  was  dead  calm,  and  a  heavy 
black  cloud  had  shrouded  the  whole  sky.  When  our  watch  came 
on  deck  at  twelve  o'clock,  it  was  as  black  as  Erebus  ;  the  studding- 
sails  were  all  taken  in,  and  the  royals  furled  ;  not  a  breath  was  stir- 
ring ;  the  sails  hung  heavy  and  motionless  from  the  yards,  and  the 
stillness  and  the  darkness,  which  was  almost  palpable,  were  truly 
appalling.  Not  a  word  was  spoken,  but  every  one  stood  as  though 
waiting  for  something  to  happen.  In  a  few  minutes  the  mate  came 
forward,  and  in  a  low  tone,  which  was  almost  a  whisper,  told  us  to 
haul  down  the  jib.  The  fore  and  mizzen  top-gallant  sails  were  taken 
in  in  the  same  silent  manner,  and  we  lay  motionless  upon  the  water, 
with  an  uneasy  expectation,  which,  from  the  long  suspense,  became 
actually  painful.  We  could  hear  the  captain  walking  the  deck,  but 
it  was  too  dark  to  see  anything  more  than  one's  hand  before  the 
face.  Soon  the  mate  came  forward  again,  and  gave  an  order,  in  a 
low  tone,  to  clew  up  the  main  top-gallant  sail ;  and  so  infectious  were 
the  awe  and  silence  that  the  clew-lines  and  bunt-lines  were  hauled 
up  without  any  singing  out  at  the  ropes.  An  English  lad  and  myself 
went  up  to  furl  it,  and  we  had  just  got  the  bunt  up,  when  the  mate 
called  out  to  us  something,  we  did  not  hear  what ;  but,  supposing  it 
to  be  an  order  to  bear-a-hand,  we  hurried  and  made  all  fast,  and 
came  down,  feeling  our  way  among  the  rigging.  When  we  got  down 
we  found  all  hands  looking  aloft,  and  there,  directly  over  where  we 
had  been  standing,  upon  the  main  top-gallant  mast-head,  was  a  ball 
of  light,  which  the  sailors  call  a  corposant  (corpo  sqnto),  and  which 
the  mate  had  called  out  to  us  to  look  at.  They  were  all  watching  it 
carefully,  for  sailors  have  a  notion  that  if  the  corposant  rises  in  the 
rigging  it  is  a  sign  of  fair  weather,  but  if  it  comes  lower  down  there 
will  be  a  storm.  Unfortunately,  as  an  omen,  it  came  down,  and 
showed  itself  on  the  top-gallant  yard-arm.  We  were  off  the  yard  in 
good  season,  for  it  is  held  a  fatal  sign  to  have  the  pale  light  of  the 
corposant  thrown  upon  one's  face.  As  it  was,  the  English'  lad  did 
not  feel  comfortably  at  having  had  it  so  near  him,  and  directly  over 
his  head.  In  a  few  minutes  it  disappeared,  and  showed  itself  again 
on  the  fore  top-gallant  yard,  and,  after  playing  about  for  some  time, 
disappeared  once  more,  when  the  man  on  the  forecastle  pointed  to  it 
upon  the  flying-jib-boom  end.  But  our  attention  was  drawn  from 
watching  this  by  the  falling  of  some  drops  of  rain,  and  by  a  percep- 
tible increase  of  the  darkness,  which  seemed  suddenly  to  add  a  new 
shade  of  blackness  to  the  night.  In  a  few  minutes,  low,  grumbling 


RICHARD    HENRY    DANA,   JR.  405 

thunder  was  heard,  and  some  random  flashes  of  lightning  came 
from  the  south-west.  Every  sail  was  taken  in  but  the  topsails ; 
still,  no  squall  appeared  to  be  coming.  A  few  puffs  lifted  the 
topsails,  but  they  fell  again  to  the  mast,  and  all  was  as  still  as 
ever.  A  moment  more,  and  a  terrific  flash  and  peal  broke  simul- 
taneously upon  us,  and  a  cloud  appeared  to  open  directly  over 
our  heads,  and  let  down  the  water  in  one  body,  like  a  falling 
ocean.  We  stood  motionless,  and  almost  stupefied ;  yet  nothing 
had  been  struck.  Peal  after  peal  rattled  over  our  heads,  with  a 
sound  which  seemed  actually  to  stop  the  breath  in  the  body,  and 
the  "  speedy  gleams  "  kept  the  whole  ocean  in  a  glare  of  light. 
The  violent  fall  of  rain  lasted  but  a  few  minutes,  and  was  followed 
by  occasional  drops  and  showers ;  but  the  lightning  continued 
incessant  for  several  hours,  breaking  the  midnight  darkness  with 
irregular  and  blinding  flashes.  During  all  this  time  there  was 
not  a  breath  stirring,  and  we  lay  motionless,  like  a  mark  to  be 
shot  at,  probably  the  only  object  on  the  surface  of  the  ocean  for 
miles  and  miles.  We  stood  hour  after  hour,  until  our  watch  was 
out,  and  we  were  relieved,  at  four  o'clock.  During  all  this  time 
hardly  a  word  was  spoken,  no  bells  were  struck,  and  the  wheel 
was  silently  relieved.  The  rain  fell  at  intervals  in  heavy  showers, 
and  we  stood  drenched  through  and  blinded  by  the  flashes,  which 
broke  the  Egyptian  darkness  with  a  brightness  that  seemed  almost 
malignant ;  while  the  thunder  rolled  in  peals,  the  concussion  of 
which  appeared  to  shake  the  very  ocean.  A  ship  is  not  often 
injured  by  lightning,  for  the  electricity  is  separated  by  the  great 
number  of  points  she  presents,  and  the  quantity  of  iron  which  she 
has  scattered  in  various  parts.  The  electric  fluid  ran  over  our 
anchors,  topsail  sheets,  and  ties,  yet  no  harm  was  done  to  us.  We 
went  below  at  four  o'clock,  leaving  things  in  the  same  state.  It  is 
not  easy  to  sleep  when  the  very  next  flash  may  tear  the  ship  in  two 
or  set  her  on  fire,  or  where  the  death-like  calm  may  be  broken  by 
the  blast  of  a  hurricane,  taking  the  masts  out  of  the  ship.  But  a 
man  is  no  sailor  if  he  cannot  sleep  when  he  turns  in,  and  turn  out 
when  he's  called.  And  when,  at  seven  bells,  the  customary  "  All 
the  larboard  watch,  ahoy  !  "  brought  us  on  deck,  it  was  a  fine, 
clear,  sunny  morning,  the  ship  going  leisurely  along,  with  a  soft 
breeze  and  all  sail  set. 


406  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


JOHN    GODFREY   SAXE. 

John  Godfrey  Saxe  was  born  at  Highgate,  Vt.,  June  2,  1816,  and  was  graduated  at  Mid- 
dlebury  College  in  1839.  He  studied  law,  and,  after  his  admission  to  the  bar  in  1843,  re- 
mained in  practice  till  1850,  when  he  removed  to  Burlington,  where  for  five  years  he  was 
editor  of  the  Sentinel.  At  that  time  he  withdrew  from  his  profession,  and  devoted  himself 
to  lecturing  and  authorship.  He  is  at  present  editor  of  the  Evening  Journal,  at  Albany, 
N.  Y.  His  first  volume,  entitled  Progress,  a  Satire,  and  Other  Poems,  was  published  in 
1846 ;  The  New  Rape  of  the  Lock  and  The  Proud  Miss  McBride  in  1848.  An  enlarged  edi- 
tion of  his  poems  appeared  in  1852  ;  The  Money  King  and  Other  Poems  in  1859  •  Clever 
Stories  of  Many  Nations,  with  comic  illustrations,  in  1863;  a  cabinet  edition  of  his  poetical 
works  in  1864  ;  and  Masquerade  in  1866. 

Mr.  Saxe  writes  with  facility,  is  intent  mainly  on  jests  and  epigrams,  and  amuses  himself 
and  his  readers  by  clever  hits  at  the  fashions  and  follies  of  the  time.  His  good-natured 
satire  does  not  cleave  to  the  depths,  nor  is  his  humor  of  that  quality  which  reaches  to  the 
sources  of  feeling,  and  which  gives  us  the  surprises  of  an  April  day.  But  he  is  level  with 
the  popular  apprehension,  and  has  made  his  name  more  familiarly  known,  in  all  parts  of  the 
country,  than  that  of  any  of  our  comic  versifiers. 

[From  Progress  :  a  Satire.] 

NOR  less,  O  Progress,  are  thy  newest  rules 

Enforced  and  honored  in  the  "  Ladies'  Schools," 

Where  Education,  in  its  nobler  sense, 

Gives  place  to  Learning's  shallowest  pretence  ; 

Where  hapless  maids,  in  spite  of  wish  or  taste, 

On  vain  "  accomplishments  "  their  moments  waste  ; 

By  cruel  parents  here  condemned  to  wrench 

Their  tender  throats  in  mispronouncing  French  ; 

Here  doomed  to  force,  by  unrelenting  knocks, 

Reluctant  music  from  a  tortured  box  ; 

Here  taught,  in  inky  shades  and  rigid  lines, 

To  perpetrate  equivocal  "  designs  ;  " 

"  Drawings  "  that  prove  their  title  plainly  true, 

By  showing  nature  "  drawn  "  and  "  quartered  "  too  ! 

In  ancient  times,  I've  heard  my  grandam  tell, 

Young  maids  were  taught  to  read,  and  write,  and  spell ; 

(Neglected  arts  !  once  learned  by  rigid  rules, 

As  prime  essentials  in  the  common  schools  "  ;) 

Well  taught  beside  in  many  a  useful  art 

To  mend  the  manners  and  improve  the  heart ; 

Nor  yet  unskilled  to  turn  the  busy  wheel, 

To  ply  the  shuttle,  and  to  twirl  the  reel ; 

Could  thrifty  tasks  with  cheerful  grace  pursue, 

Themselves  "  accomplished,"  and  their  duties  too. 


JOHN    GODFREY    SAXE.  407 

Of  tongues,  each  maiden  had  but  one,  'tis  said 

(Enough,  'twas  thought,  to  serve  a  lady's  head), 

But  that  was  English  —  great  and  glorious  tongue, 

That  Chatham  spoke,  and  Milton,  Shakespeare,  sung  ! 

Let  thoughts  too  idle  to  be  fitly  dressed 

In  sturdy  Saxon,  be  in  French  expressed  ; 

Let  lovers  breathe  Italian  —  like,  in  sooth, 

Its  singers,  soft,  emasculate,  and  smooth  ; 

But  for  a  tongue  whose  ample  powers  embrace 

Beauty  and  force,  sublimity  and  grace, 

Ornate  or  plain,  harmonious,  yet  strong, 

And  formed  alike  for  eloquence  and  song, 

Give  me  the  English  —  aptest  tongue  to  paint 

A  sage  or  dunce,  a  villain  or  a  saint, 

To  spur  the  slothful,  counsel  the  distressed, 

To  lash  the  oppressor,  and  to  soothe  the  oppressed, 

To  lend  fantastic  Humor  freest  scope 

To  marshal  all  his  laughter-moving  troop, 

Give  Pathos  power,  and  Fancy  lightest  wings, 

And  Wit  his  merriest  whims  and  keenest  stings  ! 


MY   FAMILIAR. 

Ecce  iierunt  Crispinus  I 

I. 

AGAIN  I  hear  that  creaking  step  — 

He's  rapping  at  the  door  !  — 
Too  well  I  know  the  boding  sound 

That  ushers  in  a  bore. 
I  do  not  tremble  when  I  meet 

The  stoutest  of  my  foes, 
But  Heaven  defend  me  from  the  friend 

Who  comes  —  but  never  goes  ! 

n. 
He  drops  into  my  easy-chair, 

And  asks  about  the  news  ; 
He  peers  into  my  manuscript, 

And  gives  his  candid  views  ; 
He  tells  me  where  he  likes  the  line, 

And  where  he's  forced  to  grieve  ; 


408  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

He  takes  the  strangest  liberties  — 
But  never  takes  his  leave  ! 

in. 
He  reads  my  daily  paper  through 

Before  I've  seen  a  word  ; 
He  scans  the  lyric  (that  I  wrote), 

And  thinks  it  quite  absurd  ; 
He  calmly  smokes  my  last  cigar, 

And  calmly  asks  for  more  ; 
He  opens  everything  he  sees  — 

Except  the  entry  door  ! 

IV. 

He  talks  about  his  fragile  health, 

And  tells  me  of  the  pains 
He  suffers  from  a  score  of  ills 

Of  which  he  ne'er  complains ; 
And  how  he  struggled  once  with  death 

To  keep  the  fiend  at  bay  ; 
On  themes  like  those  away  he  goes  — 

But  never  goes  away  ! 

v. 

He  tells  me  of  the  carping  words 

Some  shallow  critic  wrote, 
And  every  precious  paragraph 

Familiarly  can  quote ; 
He  thinks  the  writer  did  me  wrong ; 

He'd  like  to  run  him  through  ! 
He  says  a  thousand  pleasant  things  — 

But  never  says,  "Adieu!" 

VI. 

Whene'er  he  comes  —  that  dreadful  man  • 

Disguise  it  as  I  may, 
I  know  that,  like  an  autumn  rain, 

He'll  last  throughout  the  day. 
In  vain  I  speak  of  urgent  tasks, 

In  vain  I  scowl  and  pout; 
A  frown  is  no  extinguisher  — 

It  does  not  put  him  out ! 


PARKE    GODWIN.  409 

VII. 

I  mean  to  take  the  knocker  off, 

Put  crape  upon  the  door, 
Or  hint  to  John  that  I  am  gone 

To  stay  a  month  or  more. 
I  do  not  tremble  when  I  meet 

The  stoutest  of  my  foes, 
But  Heaven  defend  me  from,  the  friend 

Who  never,  never  goes ! 


PARKE   GODWIN. 

Parke  Godwin  was  born  in  Paterson,  N.  J.,  February  25,  1816.  He  was  graduated  at 
Princeton  College  in  1834,  and  studied  law  in  his  native  town,  but  did  not  practise  the 
profession.  He  married  a  daughter  of  the  poet  Bryant,  and  has  been  almost  constantly 
associated  with  his  father-in-law  in  conducting  the  Evening  Post,  of  New  York.  In  1843 
he  commenced  the  issue  of  a  weekly  periodical,  entitled  The  Pathfinder,  in  which  he  dis- 
played great  ability  ;  but  the  enterprise  came  to  an  end  in  three  months  on  account  of  the 
failure  of  the  publisher.  He  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Democratic  Review, 
was  for  some  time  editor  of  Putnam's  Monthly,  and  was  the  author  of  many  of  the  able 
political  articles  that  appeared  in  the  early  numbers  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  He  has 
translated  the  tales  of  Zschokke,  and  a  part  of  Goethe's  Autobiography.  He  is  the  author 
of  a  Popular  View  of  the  Doctrines  of  Fourier,  Constructive  Democracy,  and  Vala  (founded 
on  incidents  in  the  life  of  Jenny  Lind).  He  commenced  a  History  of  France,  of  which  the 
first  volume  appeared  in  1860.  A  collection  of  his  Political  Essays  was  printed  in  1856,  and 
a  series  of  critical  and  literary  papers,  entitled  Out  of  the  Past,  in  1870. 

Mr.  Godwin  has  been  an  earnest  and  successful  essayist,  and  has  done  much  to  guide 
public  opinion  in  the  weighty  affairs  of  government.  He  is  always  clear  in  argument,  and 
commands  the  thoughtful  attention  and  respect  of  his  readers.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  his 
History  will  yet  be  completed. 

[From  Out  of  the  Past.] 
AMERICAN   AUTHORSHIP. 

THE  records  of  literary  adventure  have  produced  the  impression, 
the  world  over,  that  authors  are  a  peculiar  and  exceptional  class,  — 
shiftless,  seedy,  and  improvident,  —  who,  unable  to  live  by  any  of  the 
recognized  methods  of  society,  have  betaken  themselves  to  the  ex- 
pedient of  living  by  their  wits.  It  is  understood  that  they  reside, 
when  they  reside  anywhere,  in  some  vacant  corner  of  a  garret ;  that 
they  pass  their  days  in  lurking  out  of  the  way  of  bailiffs  and  land- 
ladies ;  and  that,  after  leading  lives  of  vicissitude,  poverty,  neglect, 
and  sorrow,  when  they  come  to  die  they  revenge  their  long  quarrel 


4IO  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

with  mankind  by  bequeathing  to  it  certain  inestimable  treasures  of 
poetry,  wit,  or  thought,  over  which  it  will  gloat  and  glow  forever. 

Who  cannot  recall  a  multitude  of  disquisitions  written  on  the 
hapless  lot  of  the  poet  who  "  learned  by  suffering  what  he  taught  in 
song  "  ?  How  often  have  literary  men  themselves  bewailed  the  cruel 
injustice  of  society  to  their  order  !  What  sighs  have  we  not  exhaled, 
what  tears  not  wept,  over  the  pitiful  stories  of  misconceived  and  un- 
rewarded genius  !  The  sad  experiences  of  Savage,  the  miserable 
death  of  Otway,  the  more  miserable  death  of  Chatterton,  "  the  sleep- 
less boy  who  perished  in  his  pride,"  the  miscarriages  of  Burns,  the 
indigence  of  Coleridge,  the  protracted  struggles  of  Hook  and  Hood, 
the  suicide  of  Blanchard,  and  a  thousand  other  mournful  histories, 
are  still  fresh  in  all  our  memories.  Have  not  "  the  calamities  of 
authors,"  indeed,  furnished  the  indefatigable  Disraeli  with  the  ma- 
terials for  a  volume  ?  Or  is  there  any  possibility  of  our  forgetting 
those  lines  of  Moore,  how 

"  Bailiffs  will  seize  his  last  blanket  to-day, 
Whose  pall  shall  be  held  up  by  nobles  to-morrow  "  ? 

Schiller,  in  a  pretty  fable,  represents  Jupiter  as  dividing  all  the 
wealth  of  the  world  among  the  different  classes  of  his  creatures.  To 
the  kings  he  gives  taxes  and  tolls,  to  the  farmers  lands,  to  the  mer- 
chants trade,  and  to  the  abbots  and  monks  most  excellent  wine  ;  but 
after  having  disposed  of  all  his  worldly  possessions,  he  espies  a 
poet  wandering  away  from  the  rest,  destitute,  shabby,  and  forlorn. 
"  What  ho  !  my  good  fellow,"  exclaims  the  father  of  men  ;  "  where 
wert  thou  when  the  general  distribution  was  going  fomvard  ?"  The 
bard  modestly  replied,  "  Mine  eyes  were  drunk  with  the  glory  of 
thy  coming,  and  mine  ears  filled  with  the  harmonies  of  thy  heaven  !  " 
When  the  monarch  of  the  gods,  apparently  no  less  open  to  delicate 
flattery  than  any  mortal,  rejoined,  "  Well,  it's  a  sad  case,  my  boy  ! 
I  have  nothing  left  on  earth  to  give  you  ;  but,  as  a  compensation,  you 
shall  have,  after  death,  the  topmost  step  of  my  throne  in  the  skies." 
The  poet  was  doubtless  pleased,  and  went  away ;  and  ever  since  it 
is  said  that  this  has  been  the  principal  inheritance  of  his  tribe.  .  .  . 

It  should  be  admitted,  in  behalf  of  literary  men,  to  explain  and 
excuse,  if  not  to  justify  their  complaints,  that  with  most  of  them  the 
difficulty  is  not  so  much  the  insufficiency  of  their  incomes  as  the 
liberality  of  their  outgoes.  A  thousand  peculiar  temptations,  spring- 
ing partly  from  those  mental  susceptibilities  which  difference  them 
from  others,  and  partly  from  their  social  aptitudes,  beset  them  to 


PARKE    GODWIN.  411 

spend  more  than  they  make.  The  very  qualities  which  form  their 
greatest  glory  are  those  often  which  lead  them  into  the  deepest 
humiliations.  If  they  were  as  hard,  as  unimaginative,  as  careful  of 
the  main  chance,  as  the  cotton  spinner  or  the  merchant,  they  would 
grow  rich,  like  the  cotton  spinner  or  the  merchant  —  but  they 
are  not  so  constructed.  The  delicacy  of  organization,  out  of  which 
literature  comes,  renders  them  keenly  sensitive  also  to  the  pressures 
and  discomforts  of  existence,  —  to  the  sands  which  grit  between  the 
shell  of  their  outward  condition  and  the  fleshy  fibres.  Yearning,  then, 
to  bring  their  surroundings  into  a  better  correspondence  with  their 
tastes,  their  perpetual  tendency  is  to  gather  costly  appliances  and 
comforts  about  them,  and  to  shut  out  actual  existence  by  one  of 
ideal  refinement.  Again,  with  superior  powers  to  entertain,  or  an 
elevated  fame  to  render  their  acquaintance  a  distinction,  authors  are 
more  sought  for  than  others  by  general  society,  where,  whether  they 
contract  nice  or  dissipated  habits,  they  equally  expose  themselves  to 
expense.  It  is  impossible  to  keep  up  a  varied  and  generous  inter- 
course without  falling  into  more  or  less  extravagance  ;  and  genius, 
with  its  irritable  fancies  and  impetuous  impulses,  is  least  of  all  likely 
to  resist  the  allurements  of  luxurious  living,  or  to  temper  the  seduc- 
tions of  taste  with  the  cold  discipline  of  judgment :  not  that  genius 
is  ever  destitute  of  judgment,  —  for  subtile,  strong,  unerring  judg- 
ment is  its  very  essence,  —  but  then  its  judgment  is  theoretic  judg- 
ment, which  is  displayed  in  the  creation  and  providence  of  a  great 
drama  or  poem,  and  not  the  practical  judgment  which  controls  every- 
day affairs.  It  is  not  the  judgment  that  keeps  one  from  running  into 
prodigality,  or,  for  want  of  an  appropriate  and  ample  nourishment, 
from  resort  to  questionable  indulgences.  Ah  !  then  the  clouds 
darken  about  it,  the  present  grows  comfortless  and  the  future  mina- 
tory, and  poor  genius,  losing  its  freshness  and  glow,  is  genius  no 
more.  It  utters  its  wail  into  the  uncaring  universe  like  one  who 
falls,  at  midnight,  from  some  on-rushing  steamship,  and,  hearing  no 
reply  but  the  splash  of  his  own  sinking,  goes  down  into  the  unyield- 
ing depths  !  But  is  the  world  to  blame  for  such  miscarriages  ?  Is 
the  literary  profession,  as  a  practical  pursuit,  to  blame  ?  Is  such  a 
lot  worse,  in  its  external  liabilities,  than  that  of  other  men  ?  and 
would  not  the  chimney-sweep  or  the  lawyer,  who  should  forget  the 
actual  conditions  of  social  existence  to  indulge  in  dreams  and  ideal- 
izations, fail  as  signally  as  the  author  ? 


412  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

ROBERT   TRAILL    SPENCE    LOWELL. 

Robert  Traill  Spence  Lowell  was  born  in  Boston,  October  9,  1816,  and  was  graduated  at 
Harvard  College  in  1833.  He  studied  theology,  was  ordained  as  a  clergyman  of  the  Church 
of  England  in  1842,  and  was  chaplain  to  the  Bishop  of  Newfoundland  and  Jamaica.  He 
was  subsequently  settled  as  rector  of  Bay  Robert,  in  Newfoundland,  which  is  the  scene  of 
his  novel,  The  New  Priest  in  Conception  Bay.  He  returned  to  the  United  States  in  1858, 
and  was  settled  first  at  Newark,  N.  J.,  and  afterwards  at  Duanesburg,  N.  Y.  He  is  now 
head  master  of  St.  Mark's  School,  at  Southborough,  Mass. 

His  novel  was  published  in  Boston  in  1858,  and,  though  not  greatly  successful  with  the 
public,  it  impressed  all  cultivated  readers  by  its  exquisite  pictures  of  scenery,  its  rare  and 
life  like  portraiture  of  character,  and  its  pure  and  elevated  tone.  The  story  is  not  managed 
with  art ;  the  dialogue  is  often  prolix,  and  the  interest  drags.  Many  of  its  situations,  how- 
ever, are  well  conceived  ;  and  the  final  scene,  in  which  the  people  rush' from  the  little  parish 
church  to  look  for  a  man  lost  in  the  lonely  fields  of  snow,  is  painted  in  a  masterly  way.  It 
is  a  book  that  only  a  poet  and  a  man  of  genius  could  have  written.  A  new  edition  of  this 
novel,  illustrated  by  Darley,  appeared  in  1863. 

Mr.  Lowell  also  printed,  in  1860,  a  volume  of  Poems,  entitled  Fresh  Hearts  that  Failed 
Three  Thousand  Years  Ago.  They  have  considerable  merit.  One  of  them,  The  Brave 
Old  Ship,  the  Orient,  is  a  powerful  and  elaborately  painted  picture.  The  irregular  metre 
and  want  of  melody  are  likely  to  repel  the  reader,  but  its  descriptions  are  full  of  sombre 
magnificence,  and  leave  a  lasting  impression. 

[From  The  New  Priest  in  Conception  Bay.] 
A   SCENE   FOR   A   PAINTER. 

WITH  a  fine  breeze  in  from  the  eastward,  and  the  bright  sun  shin- 
ing from  half  way  down  the  sky,  the  waters  came  in  glad  crowds  up 
the  harbor,  and  ran  races  along  the  cliffs.  Here  and 'there  a  little 
in-coming  sail  was  rising  and  falling  smoothly  and  silently,  as  the 
loaded  punt  floated  before  the  wind. 

The  scene,  to  a  sympathetic  eye,  was  a  pretty  one,  of  home  life  ; 
but  the  prettiest  part  of  it  was  on  the  water-edge  of  Whitmonday 
Hill.  At  the  upper  end  of  it  (speaking  harbor-wise,  and  meaning 
towards  the  inner  part  of  the  harbor)  stood  a  little  stage,  —  a  rude 
house  for  heading,  and  splitting,  and  salting  fish,  —  whose  open 
doorway  showed  an  inviting  shade,  of  which  the  moral  effect  was 
heightened  by  the  sylvan  nature  of  the  house  itself,  made  up  as  it 
was  of  boughs  of  fir,  though  withered  and  red.  A  fisherman  and  his 
wife  had  just  taken  in  the  catch  of  fish  from  a  punt  at  the  stage's 
ladder,  and  a  pretty  girl,  of  some  seventeen  years,  was  towing  the 
unloaded  boat  along  beside  the  hill,  by  a  rope  laid  over  her  shoulder, 
while  a  little  thing  of  four  or  five  years  old,  on  board,  was  tugging 
with  an  oar  at  the  stem,  to  keep  the  boat's  head  off  shore. 

The  older  girl  was  one  whose  beauty  is  not  of  any  classic  kind, 
and  yet  is  beauty,  being  of  a  young  life,  healthy  and  strong,  but 
quiet  and  deep,  to  which  features  and  form  give  thorough  expression 
and  obedience.  She  had  a  swelling,  springy  shape,  dark,  glancing 


ROBERT   TRAILL    SPENCE    LOWELL.  413 

eyes,  cheeks  glowing  with  quick  blood  (the  figure,  and  glance,  and 
glowing  cheek  all  at  their  best  with  exercise),  while  masses  of  jetty 
hair  were  lifted  and  let  fall  by  the  wind  from  below  the  cap,  which 
she  wore  like  all  girls  in  her  country.  Her  dress  was  different 
from  the  common  only  in  the  tastefulness  that  belongs  to  such  a 
person,  and  had  now  a  grace  more  than  ever,  as  it  waved  and 
fluttered  in  the  wind,  and  partook  of  the  life  of  the  wearer.  She 
wore  a  frock  of  dark  blue,  caught  up  a  little  in  front,  and  show- 
ing a  white  woollen  petticoat ;  a  kerchief  of  pretty  colors  was  tied 
very  becomingly  over  her  bosom,  and  a  bright  red  ribbon,  along 
the  front  of  her  cap,  lay  among  her  black  hair.  Her  shoes  and 
stockings  were  rolled  up  in  her  apron,  while  her  blue-veined  feet 
—  not  large  nor  small,  but  smooth  and  well  shaped  —  clung  to  the 
uneven  surfaces  of  the  rocks,  and  strained  upon  them,  as  she 
walked  against  the  wind,  and  sprang  from  one  rock  to  another ; 
and  they  dipped  now  and  then  in  the  water,  as  the  little  waves 
splashed  up.  Over  all,  both  face  and  figure,  was  a  grace  of  inno- 
cent, modest  "maidenhood. 

Nothing  could  be  prettier  or  more  picturesque  than  this  little 
group.  The  elder  girl,  who  dragged  the  boat,  skirted  the  edge  of  the 
water  with  the  lightness  of  one  of  those  little  beach  birds,  that,  with 
a  shadow  and  a  reflection  in  the  moist  sand  running  along  beside  it, 
alternately  follows  and  retreats  from  the  retreating  and  advancing 
waves,  and  the  little  navigator,  towards  whom  her  sister  continually 
turned,  had  her  plump  little  legs,  in  their  wrinkled  yarn  stockings, 
and  her  well-shod  feet  set  apart  to  keep  her  balance,  while  her  head 
was  tightly  covered  in  a  white  cap,  and  a  kerchief,  with  a  silk  fringe, 
went  round  her  neck  and  down  the  back  of  her  serge  gown  ;  so 
that  one  could  not  but  smile  at  her  and  her  work.  At  intervals 
she  prattled,  and  for  longer  intervals  she  worked  with  all  earnest 
gravity  in  silence.  .  .  . 

Splash  !  went  the  water  against  the  bow,  spattering  everything, 
and,  among  other  things,  the  little  white-capped  head,  and  silk  ker- 
chief, and  serge  gown  of  the  sculler  at  the  stern.  Anon  a  wave 
came  up  from  beneath  the  keel,  and,  thrusting  a  sudden  shoulder 
under  the  blade  of  her  oar,  would  lift  it  up  out  of  the  scull-hole 
in  spite  of  her,  and  be  off.  Then  she  would  grasp  her  weapon 
womanfully,  and  get  it  under  her  arm,  and  lay  it  laboriously  into 
its  place  again.  In  England  one  may  see  the  father's  horse  going 
to  stable  with  a  young  child  on  its  back,  and  another  walking 
beside.  Here,  they  were  taking  the  punt  to  a  snug  place,  where 
she  was  to  be  hauled  up  for  the  night. 


4H  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


HENRY   DAVID   THOREAU. 

Henry  David  Thoreau  was  born  in  Boston,  July  12,  1817,  and  was  graduated  at  Harvard 
College  in  1837.  His  father  was  a  maker  of  lead  pencils  at  Concord,  and  the  son  followed  the 
business  for  a  while,  but  when  he  had  succeeded  in  making  a  perfect  pencil  he  would  make 
no  more.  He  supported  himself  by  surveying,  teaching  school,  carpentering,  and  other 
work.  Living  in  the  neighborhood  of  Emerson,  he  early  felt  the  intellectual  influence  of 
that  great  man  ;  he  studied  classical  and  English  literature  in  its  best  sources,  and  gave 
much  time  to  the  poetry  and  philosophy  of  the  East.  He  wrote  somewhat  in  the  style  of 
Emerson,  though  he  was  unconscious,  as  were  his  family,  that  he  was  an  imitator.  To  a 
psrson  who  had  remarked  the  resemblance,  Mrs.  Thoreau,  the  author's  mother,  once  said, 
"Yes,  Mr.  Emerson's  style  is  like  my  son's."  Thoreau  was  early  out  of  patience  with 
society  and  all  its  burdens.  He  remained  single  ;  he  never  attended  church,  never  voted, 
and  never  paid  a  tax.  The  town  constable  once  attempted  to  collect  a  poll-tax  of  him,  and 
took  him  to  jail  ;  but  after  a  short  imprisonment  he  was  set  at  liberty.  It  was  as  fruitless  a 
proceeding  as  it  would  have  been  to  levy  a  tax  upon  one  of  the  author's  beloved  wood- 
chucks.  In  1845  he  thought  to  make  his  separation  from  the  world  complete,  and  built  for 
himself  a  wooden  house  or  shanty  on  the  shore  of  Walden  Pond,  near  Concord,  where  he 
lived  for  several  years.  In  his  account  of  his  life  he  gives  the  details  of  his  expenses,  and  it 
appears  that  the  materials  of  his  house  cost  him  $28.125.  His  crop  of  beans  and  other 
vegetables,  the  first  year,  were  valued  at  $23.44,  anc*  the  outgoes  were  $14.725.  The  cost  of 
groceries  for  eight  months  was  $8.74,  and  for  clothing  $8.40.  Total  expenses  for  the 
year  $6 1. 995. 

The  amount  necessary  to  sustain  life  is  shown  to  be  very  small,  and  the  example  of  this 
recluse  has  a  certain  value  in  view  of  the  general  extravagant  habits  of  our  people.  But, 
looked  at  soberly,  this  was  the  experiment  of  a  selfish  misanthrope,  the  freak  of  a  literary 
barbarian.  To  withdraw  from  human  fellowship  for  a  time  gives  a  healthy  stimulus  to  the 
mind ;  but  ho  man  can  or  ought  to  repudiate  utterly  the  obligations  he  owes  to  the  world. 
As  Lowell  says,  "The  tub  of  Diogenes  had  a  sounder  bottom.  He  squatted  on  another 
man's  land  ;  he  borrows  an  axe  ;  his  boards,  his  nails,  his  bricks,  his  mortar,  his  books,  his 
lamp,  his  fish-hooks,  his  plough,  his  hoe,  all  turn  state's  evidence  against  him  as  an  ac- 
complice in  the  sin  of  that  artificial  civilization  which  rendered  it  possible  that  such  a  person 
as  Henry  D.  Thoreau  should  exist  at  all. " 

Whatever  we  may  think  of  the  eccentric  man  and  his  philosophy  of  living,  we  acknowledge 
a  great  debt  to  him  for  his  fresh  and  delightful  books.  From  the  unpromising  natural 
features  of  Concord,  he  has  drawn  for  us  the  most  beautiful  views,  and  has  given  us  the  daily 
studies  of  a  devotee  of  Nature,  in  the  annual  procession  of  flowers  and  plants,  in  the  habits 
of  the  lesser  animals,  and  of  the  singing  birds.  The  reader  will  look  in  vain  elsewhere  for 
such  faithful,  affectionate  sketches.  His  descriptive  powers  are  of  the  highest  order,  and  his 
sentences  appear  to  have  been  as  carefully  set  as  gems.  His  taste  in  literature  was  cul- 
tivated, and  his  quotations,  especially  from  Oriental  sources,  are  always  apposite.  But  the 
reader  does  not  perceive  anywhere  the  warmth  of  the  author's  sympathy,  unless  it  is  for  the 
four-footed  hermits,  his  neighbors.  Not  that  he  actually  hated  mankind,  but  he  was  not 
concerned  in  their  affairs,  and  regarded  their  labor,  worship,  and  love  as  being  of  no  more 
vital  moment  than  the  nest-building,  pairing,  and  morning  song  of  the  birds. 

Hawthorne  has  mentioned  hiirf  in  terms  of  affectionate  regard,  and  says,  "Whilst  he  used 
in  his  writings  a  certain  petulance  of  remark  about  churches  and  churchmen,  he  was  a  person 
of  rare,  tender,  and  absolute  religion  —  a  person  incapable  of  any  profanation. "  He  died 
at  Concord,  May  6,  1862.  Mr.  Emerson  published  an  account  of  him  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  shortly  after  his  death. 

His  works  are,  A  Week  on  Concord  and  Merrimack  Rivers  (1849),  Walden,  or  Life  in 
the  Woods  (1854),  Excursions  (1863),  Maine  Woods,  Cape  Cod,  A  Yankee  in  Canada, 
Letters  to  Various  Persons  (1865).  Boston,  J.  R.  O?good  &  Co. 


HENRY    DAVID    THOREAU.  415 

[From  Walden.] 
THE   BEAN   FIELD. 

As  I  drew  a  still  fresher  soil  about  the  rows  with  my  hoe,  I  dis- 
turbed the  ashes  of  unchronicled  nations  who  in  primeval  years  lived 
under  these  heavens,  and  their  small  implements  of  war  and  hunting 
were  brought  to  the  light  of  this  modern  day.  They  lay  mingled  with 
other  natural  stones,  some  of  which  bore  the  marks  of  having  been 
burned  by  Indian  fires,  and  some  by  the  sun,  and  also  bits  of  pottery 
and  glass  brought  hither  by  the  recent  cultivators  of  the  soil.  When 
my  hoe  tinkled  against  the  stones,  that  music  echoed  to  the  woods 
and  the  sky,  and  was  an  accompaniment  to  my  labor  which  yielded 
an  instant  and  immeasurable  crop.  It  was  no  longer  beans  that  I 
hoed,  nor  I  that  hoed  beans  ;  and  I  remembered  with  as  much  pity 
as  pride,  if  I  remembered  at  all,  my  acquaintances  who  had  gone  to 
the  city  to  attend  the  oratorios.  The  night-hawk  circled  overhead 
in  the  sunny  afternoons  —  for  I  sometimes  made  a  day  of  it  —  like  a 
mote  in  the  eye,  or  in  heaven's  eye,  falling  from  time  to  time  with  a 
swoop  and  a  sound  as  if  the  heavens  were  rent,  torn  at  last  to  very 
rags  and  tatters,  and  yet  a  seamless  cope  remained ;  small  imps 
that  fill  the  air  and  lay  their  eggs  on  the  ground,  on  bare  sand  or 
rocks  on  the  tops  of  hills,  where  few  have  found  them  ;  graceful  and 
slender  like  ripples  caught  up  from  the  pond,  as  leaves  are  raised  by 
the  wind  to  float  in  the  heavens  —  such  kindredship  is  in  Nature. 
The  hawk  is  aerial  brother  of  the  wave  which  he  sails  over  and 
surveys,  those  his  perfect  air-inflated  wings  answering  to  the  ele- 
mental unfledged  pinions  of  the  sea.  Or  sometimes  I  watched  a 
pair  of  hen-hawks  circling  high  in  the  sky,  alternately  soaring  and 
descending,  approaching  and  leaving  one  another,  as  if  they  were 
the  imbodiment  of  my  own  thoughts.  Or  I  was  attracted  by  the 
passage  of  wild  pigeons  from  this  wood  to  that,  with  a  slight  quiver- 
ing, winnowing  sound  and  carrier  haste  ;  or  from  under  a  rotten 
stump  my  hoe  turned  up  a  sluggish  portentous  and  outlandish 
spotted  salamander,  a  trace  of  Egypt  and  the  Nile,  yet  our  contem- 
porary. When  I  paused  to  lean  on  my  hoe,  these  sounds  and 
sights  I  heard  and  saw  anywhere  in  the  row,  a  part  of  the  inex- 
haustible entertainment  which  the  country  offers.  .  .  . 

BERRIES. 

Sometimes,  having  had  a  surfeit  of  human  society  and  gossip,  and 
worn  out  all  my  village  friends,  I  rambled  still  farther  westward 


416  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

than  I  habitually  dwell,  into  yet  more  unfrequented  parts  of  the 
town,  or,  while  the  sun  was  setting,  made  my  supper  of  huckle- 
berries and  blueberries  on  Fair  Haven  Hill,  and  laid  up  a  store  for 
several  days.  The  fruits  do  not  yield  their  true  flavor  to  the 
purchaser  of  them,  nor  to  him  who  raises  them  for  the  market. 
There  is  but  one  way  to  obtain  it,  yet  few  take  that  way.  If  you 
would  know  the  flavor  of  huckleberries,  ask  the  cow-boy  or  the 
partridge.  It  is  a  vulgar  error  to  suppose  that  you  have  tasted 
huckleberries  who  never  plucked  them.  A  huckleberry  never  reaches 
Boston  ;  they  have  not  been  known  there  since  they  grew  on  her 
three  hills.  The  ambrosial  and  essential  part  of  the  fruit  is  lost  with 
the  bloom  which  is  rubbed  off  in  the  market  cart,  and  they  become 
mere  provender.  As  long  as  eternal  justice  reigns,  not  one  in- 
nocent huckleberry  can  be  transported  thither  from  the  country's 
hills.  .  .  . 

THE   POND. 

The  shore  is  irregular  enough  not  to  be  monotonous.  I  have  in 
my  mind's  eye  the  western  indented  with  deep  bays,  the  bolder 
northern,  and  the  beautifully  scolloped  southern  shore,  where  suc- 
cessive capes  overlap  each  other  and  suggest  unexplored  coves 
between.  The  forest  has  never  so  good  a  setting,  nor  is  so  distinct- 
ly beautiful,  as  when  seen  from  the  middle  of  a  small  lake  amid  hills 
which  rise  from  the  water's  edge  ;  for  the  water  in  which  it  is  re- 
flected not  only  makes  the  best  foreground  in  such  a  case,  but,  with 
its  winding  shore,  the  rrost  natural  and  agreeable  boundary  to  it. 
There  is  no  rawness  nor  imperfection  in  its  edge  iheie,  as  where  the 
axe  has  cleared  a  part,  or  a  cultivated  f  .eld  abuts  on  it.  T/ie  trees 
have  ample  room  to  expand  on  the  water  side,  and  each  sends  forth 
its  most  vigorous  branch  in  that  direction.  There  Nature  has 
woven  a  natural  selvage,  and  the  eye  rises  by  just  gradations  from 
the  low  shrubs  of  the  shore  to  the  highest  trees.  There  are  few 
traces  of  man's  hand  to  be  seen.  The  water  laves  the  shore  as  it 
did  a  thousand  years  ago.  .  .  . 

In  such  a  day,  in  September  or  October,  Walden  is  a  perfect 
forest  mirror,  set  round  with  stones  as  precious  to  my  eye  as  if 
fewer  or  rarer.  Nothing  so  fair,  so  pure,  and  at  the  same  time  so 
large,  as  a  lake,  perchance,  lies  on  the  surface  of  the  earth.  Sky 
water.  It  needs  no  fence.  Nations  come  and  go  without  defiling  it. 
It  is  a  mirror  which  no  stone  can  crack,  whose  quicksilver  will  never 
wear  off,  whose  gilding  Nature  continually  repairs  ;  no  storms,  no 


JAMES    THOMAS    FIELDS.  41  / 

dust,  can  dim  its  surface  ever  fresh  ;  a  mirror  in  which  all  im- 
purity presented  to  it  sinks,  swept  and  dusted  by  the  sun's  hazy 
brush,  —  this  the  light  dust-cloth,  — which  retains  no  breath  that  is 
breathed  upon  it,  but  sends  its  own  to  float  as  clouds  high  above  its 
surface,  and  be  reflected  in  its  bosom  still. 

A  field  of  water  betrays  the  spirit  that  is  in  the  air.  It  is  con- 
tinually receiving  new  life  and  motion  from  above.  It  is  inter- 
mediate in  its  nature  between  land  and  sky.  On  land  only  the 
grass  and  trees  wave,  but  the  water  itself  is  rippled  by  the  wind.  L 
see  where  the  breeze  dashes  across  it  by  the  streaks  or  flakes  of 
light.  It  is  remarkable  that  we  can  look  down  on  its  surface.  We 
shall,  perhaps,  look  down  thus  on  the  surface  of  air  at  length,  and 
mark  where  a  still  subtler  spirit  sweeps  over  it.  ... 

Already,  by  the  first  of  September,  I  had  seen  two  or  three  small 
maples  turned  scarlet  across  the  pond,  beneath  where  the  white 
stems  of  three  aspens  diverged  at  the  point  of  a  promontory,  next 
the  water.  Ah  !  many  a  tale  their  color  told  !  And  gradually  from 
week  to  week  the  character  of  each  tree  came  out,  and  it  admired 
itself  reflected  in  the  smooth  mirror  of  the  lake.  Each  morning  the 
manager  of  this  gallery  substituted  some  new  picture,  distinguished 
by  more  brilliant  or  harmonious  coloring,  for  the  old  upon  the 
walls.  .  .  . 

Like  the  wasps,  before  I  finally  went  into  winter  quarters  in 
November,  I  used  to  resort  to  the  north-east  side  of  Walden,  which 
the  sun,  reflected  from  the  pitch-pine  woods  and  the  stony  shore, 
made  the  fireside  of  the  pond  ;  it  is  so  much  pleasanter  and  whole- 
somer  to  be  warmed  by  the  sun  while  you  can  be,  than  by  an  artificial 
fire.  I  thus  warmed  myself  by  the  still  glowing  embers  which  the 
summer,  like  a  departed  hunter,  had  left. 


JAMES   THOMAS  FIELDS. 

James  Thomas  Fields  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  December  31,  1817,  and  received 
his  education  in  the  public  schools  of  that  town.  He  came  to  Boston,  engaged  in  the  busi- 
ness of  bookselling,  and  afterwards  became  a  partner  in  the  house  of  Ticknor  &  Fields, 
honorably  known  wherever  the  best  books  are  read.  He  delivered  a  poem  before  the 
Mercantile  Library  Association  in  1839,  and  has  ever  since  devoted  himself  to  literature 
with  as  much  assiduity  as  to  book-making. 

Campbell  proposed  the  health  of  Bonaparte  when  the  news  came  that  he  had  had  a  book- 
seller shot  at  Leipsic,  and  there  are  frequent  squibs  at  the  expense  of  the  guild  of  publishers, 
in  the  works  of  the  improvident  literary  class.  It  was  reserved  for  Mr.  Fields  to  form  for  a 
long  period  a  bond  of  intimate  friendship  between  his  own  house  and  the  best  living  authors^ 
27 


41 8  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

and  at  last  to  go  over  to  them  without  losing  his  individuality,  and  preserving  the  regard 
of  both. 

He  published  privately  small  volumes  of  poems  in  1849,  l&54>  ar>d  J8s8.  He  was  the 
editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  from  1862  to  1870.  His  long  acquaintance  with  authors  gave 
him  unusual  advantages  in  gathering  letters  and  materials  for  personal  biography.  These 
collections  were  given  to  the  reading  public  in  the  Atlantic,  in  a  series  of  papers  called  Our 
Whispering  Gallery,  and  have  recently  been  published  in  a  handsome  volume,  entitled 
Yesterdays  with  Authors.  The  glimpses  of  private  life,  the  hints  of  conversation,  and  the 
numerous  letters  thus  preserved,  are  exceedingly  interesting,  and  Mr.  Fields's  introductions 
and  narratives  are  written  with  excellent  taste  and  judgment.  The  accounts  of  Hawthorne 
and  Dickens,  in  particular,  are  more  delightful  than  any  elaborate  biography  would  be.  The 
letters  of  Miss  Mitford,-  which  conclude  the  volume,  are  of  less  real  value,  as  the  kind- 
hearted  lady  seems  to  have  looked  at  everything  American  through  a  Claude  Lorraine 
glass,  and  her  constant  gush  of  admiration  and  affection  lessens  the  value  of  her  opinions. 

[From  Yesterdays  with  Authors.] 
CHARLES   DICKENS. 

OUR  first  real  visit  to  Cobham  Park  was  on  a  summer  morning, 
when  Dickens  walked  out  with  us  from  his  own  gate,  and,  strolling 
quietly  along  the  road,  turned  at  length  into  what  seemed  a  rural 
wooded  pathway.  At  first  we  did  not  associate  the  spot,  in  its 
spring  freshness,  with  that  morning  after  Christmas  when  he  had 
supped  with  the  Seven  Poor  Travellers,  and  lain  awake  all  night 
with  thinking  of  them  ;  and  after  parting  in  the  morning  with  a 
kindly  shake  of  the  hand  all  round,  started  to  walk  through  Cobham 
woods  on  his  way  towards  London.  Then  on  his  lonely  road,  "  the 
mists  began  to  rise  in  the  most  beautiful  manner,  and  the  sun  to 
shine  ;  and  as  I  went  on,"  he  writes,  "through  the  bracing  air,  see- 
ing the  hoar  frost  sparkle  everywhere,  I  felt  as  if  all  Nature  shared 
in  the  joy  of  the  great  birthday.  Going  through  the  woods,  the  soft- 
ness of  my  tread  upon  the  mossy  ground  and  among  the  brown 
leaves  enhanced  the  Christmas  sacredness  by  which  I  felt  surrounded. 
As  the  whitened  stems  environed  me,  I  thought  how  the  Founder  of 
the  time  had  never  raised  his  benignant  hand,  save  to  bless  and 
heal,  except  in  the  case  of  one  unconscious  tree." 

Now  we  found  ourselves  on  the  same  ground,  surrounded  by 
the  full  beauty  of  the  summer-time.  The  hand  of  Art  conspiring 
with  Nature  had  planted  rhododendrons,  as  if  in  their  native  soil 
beneath  the  forest  trees.  They  were  in  one  universal  flame  of 
blossoms  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see.  Lord  and  Lady  D.,  the 
kindest  and  most  hospitable  of  neighbors,  were  absent ;  there  was 
not  a  living  figure  besides  ourselves  to  break  the  solitude,  and  we 
wandered  on  and  on,  with  the  wild  birds  for  companions,  as  in  our 
native  wildernesses.  By  and  by  we  came  near  Cobham  Hall,  with 


JAMES    THOMAS    FIELDS.  419 

its  fine  lawns  and  far-sweeping  landscape,  and  workmen,  and  garden- 
ers, and  a  general  air  of  summer  luxury.  But  to-day  we  were  to  go 
past  the  hall  and  lunch  on  a  green  slope  under  the  trees  (was  it 
just  the  spot  where  Mr.  Pickwick  tried  the  cold  punch  and  found  it 
satisfactory  ?  I  never  liked  to  ask  !)  and  after  making  the  old  woods 
ring  with  the  clatter  and  clink  of  our  noontide  meal,  mingled  with 
floods  of  laughter,  were  to  come  to  the  village,  and  to  the  very  inn 
from  which  the  disconsolate  Mr.  Tupman  wrote  to  Mr.  Pickwick, 
after  his  adventure  with  Miss  Wardle.  There  is  the  old  sign,  and 
here  we  are  at  the  Leather  Bottle,  Cobham,  Kent.  "  There's  no 
doubt  whatever  about  that."  Dickens's  modesty  would  not  allow 
him  to  go  in  ;  so  we  made  the  most  of  an  outside  study  of  the  quaint 
old  place  as  we  strolled  by  ;  also  of  the  cottages  whose  inmates 
were  evidently  no  strangers  to  our  party,  but  were  cared  for  by  them 
as  English  cottagers  are  so  often  looked  after  by  the  kindly  ladies 
in  their  neighborhood.  And  there  was  the  old  churchyard,  "where 
the  dead  had  been  quietly  buried  '  in  the  sure  and  certain  hope ' 
which  Christmas-time  inspired."  There  too  were  the  children, 
whom,  seeing  at  their  play,  he  could  not  but  be  loving,  remembering 
who  had  loved  them !  One  party  of  urchins  swinging  on  a  gate 
reminded  us  vividly  of  Collins,  the  painter.  Here  was  his  composi- 
tion to  the  life.  Every  lover  of  rural  scenery  must  recall  the  little 
fellow  on  the  top  of  a  five-barred  gate  in  the  picture  Collins  painted, 
known  widely  by  the  fine  engraving  made  of  it  at  the  time.  And 
there,  too,  were  the  blossoming  gardens,  which  now  shone  in  their 
new  garments  of  resurrection.  The  stillness  of  midsummer  noon 
crept  over  everything  as  we  lingered  in  the  sun  and  shadow  of  the 
old  village.  Slowly  circling  the  hall,  we  came  upon  an  avenue  of 
lime-trees  leading  up  to  a  stately  doorway  in  the  distance.  The 
path  was  overgrown,  birds  and  squirrels  were  hopping  unconcerned- 
ly over  the  ground,  and  the  gates  and  chains  were  rusty  with  disuse. 
"This  avenue,"  said  Dickens,  as  we  leaned  upon  the  wall,  and 
looked  into  its  cool  shadows,  "  is  never  crossed  except  to  bear  the 
dead  body  of  the  lord  of  the  hall  to  its  last  resting-place  ;  a  remnant 
of  superstition,  and  one  which  Lord  and  Lady  D.  would  be  glad 
to  do  away  with,  but  the  villagers  would  never  hear  of  such  a  thing, 
and  would  consider  it  certain  death  to  any  person  who  should  go  or 
come  through  this  entrance.  It  would  be  a  highly  unpopular  move- 
ment for  the  present  occupants  to  attempt  to  uproot  this  absurd  idea, 
and  they  have  given  up  all  thoughts  of  it  for  the  time."  .  .  . 
His  favorite  mode  of  exercise  was  walking;  and  when  in  America, 


420  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

scarcely  a  day  passed,  no  matter  what  the  weather,  that  he  did  not 
accomplish  his  eight  or  ten  miles.  It  was  on  these  expeditions  that 
he  liked  to  recount  to  the  companion  of  his  rambles  stories  and 
incidents  of  his  early  life  ;  and  when  he  was  in  the  mood,  his  fun 
and  humor  knew  no  bounds.  He  would  then  frequently  discuss  the 
numerous  characters  in  his  delightful  books,  and  would  act  out,  on 
the  road,  dramatic  situations,  where  Nickleby,  or  Copper-field,  or 
Swiveller  would  play  distinguished  parts.  I  remember,  he  said, 
on  one  of  these  occasions,  that  during  the  composition  of  his  first 
stories  he  could  never  entirely  dismiss  the  characters  about  whom 
he  happened  to  be  writing  ;  that  while  the  Old  Curiosity  Shop  was 
in  process  of  composition,  Little  Nell  followed  him  about  every- 
where ;  that  while  he  was  writing  Oliver  Twist,  Fagin,  the  Jew, 
would  never  let  him  rest,  even  in  his  most  retired  moments  ;  that  at 
midnight  and  in  the  morning,  on  the  sea  and  on  the  land,  Tiny  Tim 
and  Little  Bob  Cratchit  were  ever  tugging  at  his  coat-sleeve,  as  if 
impatient  for  him  to  get  back  to  his  desk  and  continue  the  story  of 
their  lives.  But  he  said  after  he  had  published  several  books,  and 
saw  what  serious  demands  his  characters  were  accustomed  to  make 
for  the  constant  attention  of  his  already  overtasked  brain,  he  resolved 
that  the  phantom  individuals  should  no  longer  intrude  on  his  hours 
of  recreation  and  rest,  but  that  when  he  closed  the  door  of  his  study 
he  would  shut  them  all  in,  and  only  meet  them  again  when  he  came 
back  to  resume  his  task.  That  force  of  will  with  which  he  was  so 
pre-eminently  endowed  enabled  him  to  ignore  these  manifold  exist- 
ences till  he  chose  to  renew  their  acquaintance.  He  said  also,  that 
when  the  children  of  his  brain  had  once  been  launched,  free  and 
clear  of  him,  into  the  world,  they  would  sometimes  turn  up  in  the 
most  unexpected  manner  to  look  their  father  in  the  face. 

Sometimes  he  would  pull  my  arm  while  we  were  walking  together, 
and  whisper,  "  Let  us  avoid  Mr.  Pumblechook,  who  is  crossing  the 
street  to  meet  us,"  or  "  Mr.  Micawber  is  coming;  let  us  turn  down 
this  alley  to  get  out  of  his  way."  He  always  seemed  to  enjoy  the 
fun  of  his  comic  people,  and  had  unceasing  mirth  over  Mr.  Pick- 
wick's misadventures. 

What  a  treat  it  was  to  go  with  him  to  the  London  Zoological  Gar- 
dens, a  place  he  greatly  delighted  in  at  all  times  !  He  knew  the 
zoological  address  of  every  animal,  bird,  and  fish  of  any  distinction  ; 
and  he  could,  without  the  slightest  hesitation,  on  entering  the 
grounds,  proceed  straightway  to  the  celebrities  of  claw,  or  foot,  or 
fin.  The  delight  he  took  in  the  hippopotamus  family  was  most  ex- 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL.  421 

hilarating.  He  entered  familiarly  into  conversation  with  the  huge, 
unwieldy  creatures,  and  they  seemed  to  understand  him.  Indeed, 
he  spoke  to  all  the  unphilological  inhabitants  with  a  directness  and 
tact  which  went  home  to  them  at  once.  He  chaffed  with  the 
monkeys,  coaxed  the  tigers,  and  bamboozled  the  snakes,  with  a 
dexterity  unapproachable.  All  the  keepers  knew  him,  he  was  such 
a  loyal  visitor,  and  I  noticed  they  came  up  to  him  in  a  friendly  way, 
with  the  feeling  that  they  had  a  sympathetic  listener  always  in 
Charles  Dickens. 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

James  Russell  Lowell  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  February  22,  1819.  He  was 
graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1838,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  in  Boston,  1840. 
He  never  practised  the  profession,  but  gave  his  attention  wholly  to  literature  ;  and,  except- 
ing his  visits  to  Europe,  he  has  always  lived  in  the  house  in  which  he  was  born.  He  recited 
a  class  posm,  which  was  printed  in  1839.  In  1841  he  printed  a  volume  of  poems,  entitled 
A  Year's  Life.  In  1843,  in  connection  with  Robert  Carter,  he  established  a  magazine 
called  The  Pioneer,  which  survived  but  three  months,  on  account  of  the  failure  of  the  pub- 
lisher. In  1844  he  published  A  Legend  of  Brittany ;  in  1845  Conversations  on  the  Old 
Poets  ;  in  1848  a  new  series  of  poems,  many  of  them  strongly  anti-slavery  in  character;  and 
in  the  same  year,  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  one  of  the  most  popular  of  his  poems,  and  an 
exquisite  work  of  art.  During  the  Mexican  war,  and  the  political  events  that  followed  it, 
Mr.  Lowell  commenced,  in  the  Boston  Courier,  a  series  of  satirical  poems  m  the  Yankee 
dialect,  purporting  to  have  been  written  by  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow,  and  furnished  with  an  intro- 
duction, notes,  and  an  index,  by  the  Rev.  Homer  Wilbur.  These  were  afterwards  gathered, 
with  burlesque  "notices  from  an  independent  press,"  in  a  volume  entitled  The  Biglow 
Papers.  The  point,  vigor,  wit,  and  perfect  keeping  of  this  satire,  are  admirable.  Regarded 
as  a  mere  repository  of  fun,  it  is  inimitable  ;  but  the  author's  lines  are  edged  tools,  rather 
than  playthings,  and  they  have  been  felt  throughout  the  long  struggle  that  is  now  ended. 
The  character  of  Parson  Wilbur  is  a  delightfully  comic  creation  ;  and  Hosea  is  the  embodi- 
ment of  the  native  humor  and  homely  mother-wit  of  the  Yankee  race.  A  second  series 
was  published  during  the  late  rebellion. 

In  1843  Mr.  Lowell  published  anonymously  a  rhymed  satirical  view  of  American  litera- 
ture, entitled  A  Fable  for  Critics.  Though  written  from  a  humorous  point  ofview,  and  in  a 
"  touch-and-go "  style,  it  contains  many  exquisite  passages,  and  some  acute,  and,  on  the 
whole,  just  estimates  of  our  principal  writers.  In  1852-3  Mr.  Lowell  visited  Europe.  In 
1854-5  lie  delivered  a  course  of  lectures  before  the  Lowell  Institute  upon  the  British  poets. 
It  was  a  most  brilliant  exposition  of  the  subject,  and  gave  to  the  author  as  high  a  place  among 
critics  as  among  ]-oats.  In  1855,  upon  the  resignation  of  Mr.  Longfellow,  he  was  appointed 
professor  of  modern  languages  and  belles  lettrcs  in  Harvard  College.  He  visited  Europe 
again  to  perfect  himself  in  his  studies,  and  returned  to  assume  his  place,  in  August,  1856. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly  was  established,  by  Messrs.  Phillips  &  Sampson,  in  1857,  and 
the  gentlemen  who  had  been  invited  to  assist  in  the  undertaking  unanimously  designated 
Mr.  Lowell  as  the  editor-in-chief.  The  character  and  influence  of  that  magazine,  and  the 
stimulus  it  gave  to  the  literary  taste  and  culture  of  the  country,  are  now  matters  of  history. 
He  wrote  also  frequently  for  Putnam's  Monthly,  and  was  editor,  for  a  time,  of  the  North 
American  Review.  His  essays  in  these  periodicals  have  been  collected  in  three  volumes: 
Fireside  Travels  (1864),  Among  My  Books  (1870),  and  My  Study  Windows  (1871).  H« 
read  a  Commemoration  Ode,  at  the  assembly  of  the  sons  of  Harvard,  in  July,  1865,  in  honor 


422       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

of  the  slain  heroes  of  the  civil  war.  It  is  written  in  a  lofty  strain,  and,  more  than  any  mod- 
ern ode  that  we  remember,  is  filled  with  "thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn.'* 
Under  the  Willows,  a  volume  of  later  poems,  with  deeper  insight  and  more  refined  traits  of 
beauty,  was  printed  in  1869.  In  the  same  year  appeared  a  poem  in  blank  verse,  entitled 
The  Cathedra],  suggested  by  a  visit  to  Chartres.  This  is  probably  the  highest  expression 
of  his  genius.  It  is  far  from  popular,  for  its  masculine  power  of  thought,  and  the  glancing 
lights  of  its  imagery,  are  only  for  those  who  have  the  clear  and  practised  sight  to  discern  its 
spiritual  truths  and  subtile  analogies.  A  recent  volume  contains  all  his  published  poems, 
except  one  entitled  Fitz  Adam's  Story,  which  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  January, 
1867,  and  which  contains  some  of  the  most  faithful  sketches  of  New  England  character  ever 
drawn. 

It  is  common,  in  speaking  of  authors  who  have  excelled  in  various  styles  of  writing,  to 
call  them  versatile.  But  what  adjective  will  convey  an  idea  of  the  many-sidedness  of  Low- 
ell ?  When  we  read  the  tender  story. of  The  First  Snow  Fall,  the  wise  lessons  of  Ambrose, 
the  prophetic  strains  of  The  Present  Crisis  and  of  Villa  Franca,  the  wit  and  shrewdness  of 
Hosea  Biglow,  the  delicious  humor  of  the  garrulous  Parson,  the  delicate  beauty  of  Sir 
Launfal,  the  grandeur  of  the  Commemoration  Ode,  the  solemn  splendor  of  The  Cathedral, 
what  can  we  do  but  wonder  at  the  imaginative  power  that  takes  on  these  various  shapes, 
and  moves  in  such  diverse  ways  to  touch  our  souls  in  every  part?  When,  in  addition,  we 
consider  his  vigorous,  learned,  and  glowing  prose  essays,  full  of  color  like  fresh  stud:es  from 
the  fields,  full  of  wit  that  not  only  sparkles  in  epigram  but  pervades  and  lightens  the  whole, 
and  full  of  an  elastic  spirit  such  as  belongs  to  immortal  youth,  we  find  enough  to  give  him 
an  enduring  fame  if  he  had  never  written  a  line  of  verse. 

There  are  persons  of  education  and  taste  who  say  they  do  not  find  much  to  admire  in 
Lowell.  Honest  Samuel  Pepys  records  of  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  that  it  was  the 
most  insipid  and  ridiculous  play  he  had  ever  seen.  Faust  is  not  easy  reading,  nor  is  Dante's 
Divine  Comedy.  It  is  not  necessary  to  compare  Lowell  with  the  world's  great  authors  ;  it 
is  enough  to  say  that  his  works  deserve  and  wiil  repay  the  study  of  the  most  thoughtful 
men.  One  cause  that  may  repel  the  mere  pleasure-loving  reader  is  that  the  poet  is  more 
concerned  for  the  full  expression  of  his  vigorous  thought  than  for  the  melody  of  the  result- 
ing lines ;  and  when  the  strong  words  of  our  language  are  borne  on  a  torrent  of  feeling,  they 
are  sometimes  like  an  ice-pack  on  one  of  our  rivers  at  the  breaking  up  of  winter. 

Cambridge  to-day,  with  its  growing  piles  of  masonry,  its  clustering  schools,  its  scores  of 
professors,  its  trim  country  housas  and  lawns,  its  smooth  streets  and  enclosed  fields,  seems 
as  though  it  might  be  the  horns  of  an  essayist,  historian,  philosopher,  or  of  a  poet  of  a  cer- 
tain urban  class ;  but  we  should  hardly  think  of  looking  there  for  a  poet  of  original 
genius,  in  intimate  relations  with  nature,  and  formed  by  the  study  of  character  untu- 
tored in  books  and  unspoiled  by  artificial  modes  of  life.  To  know  the  early  influences 
that  developed  the  poet's  mind  and  furnished  him  with  the  material  for  his  inimitable 
studies,  we  should  have  seen  Cambridge  Thirty  Years  Ago.  Mount  Auburn  was  not  a 
populous  cemetery  then,  but  was  Sweet  Auburn,  a  pasture  full  of  the  haunts  of  flowers. 
Love  Lane  had  not  been  blotted  out,  and  the  willows  hung  over  the  marshes  and  skirted 
the  Concord  road.  Old  people  were  living  who  had  preserved  the  traditions,  manners,  an 
speech  of  the  last  century.  In  place  of  the  railway  trains,  enormous  caravans  of  white-cov- 
ered wapons  came  from  the  interior,  and  gathered  nightly  at  the  great  square  taverns  at  the 
Port.  The  Cambridge  boy  of  that  day  (and  how  far  away  that  day  seems  !)  knew  the  sunny 
slopes  where  the  anemones  first  showed  their  tremulous  purple  blossoms,  and  the  spongy 
lanes  where  the  gorgeous  cardinal  flower  and  the  strangely  beautiful  orchis  were  to  be 
found.  Birds,  rabbits,  and  squirrels  were  his  familiar  friends.  The  groups  of  farmers  on 
their  way  to  market,  and  the  more  knowing  teamsters,  to  whom  their  years  on  the  turnpike 
had  given  the  air  of  travelled  men,  as  they  met  at  the  great  caravanseras  and  exchanged 
jokes,  furnished  abundant  opportunities  for  the  study  of  character,  especially  of  the  indi- 
vidual qualities  of  the  now  extinct  rustic  Yankee. 

The  observing  eyes  of  the  future  poet  found  plenty  of  humorous  traits  among  these  shrewd 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL.  423 

and  simple  people.  Their  mental  processes,  their  clear-cut  phrases,  their  homely  meta- 
phors, and  their  quaint  modes  of  speech,  were  unconsciously  treasured  in  his  memory.  He 
was  fortunate,  too,  in  the  surroundings  of  his  home  and  in  his  father's  library,  in  which  he 
devoured  romances,  travels,  and  poems ;  and  he  could  have  passed  a  better  examination, 
probably,  in  Scottish  ballads,  Hakluyt's  Voyages,  Froissart's  Chronicles,  and  old  plays, 
than  in  conic  sections  or  Greek  prosody. 

As  each  plant,  by  a  secret  chemistry,  draws  from  the  soil  the  elements  necessary  for  its 
own  jjrowth,  and  for  the  perfect  flavor  and  aroma  of  its  own  flowers  and  juices,  so  it  would 
sesm  each  intellect  pierces  the  accumulated  mould  around  it,  and  draws  into  itself  the  ele- 
ments for  its  future  blossoming  and  its  immortal  fruit.  Summer  has  passed  with  the  poet, 
but  the  long,  golden  autumnal  season  is  yet  before  him. 

[From  an  essay  on  Cambridge  Thirty  Years  Ago,  in  Fireside  Travels.] 

THERE  was  but  one  white-and-yellow-washer,  whose  own  cottage, 
fresh-gleaming  every  June  through  grape-vine  and  creeper,  was  his 
only  sign  and  advertisement.  He  was  said  to  possess  a  secret, 
which  died  with  him  like  that  of  Luca  della  Robbia,  and  certainly 
conceived  all  colors  but  white  and  yellow  to  savor  of  savagery,  civ- 
ilizing the  stems  of  his  trees  annually  with  liquid  lime,  and  meditat- 
ing how  to  extend  that  candent  baptism  even  to  the  leaves.  His 
pie-plants  (the  best  in  town),  compulsory  monastics,  blanched  under 
barrels,  each  in  his  little  hermitage,  a  vegetable  Certosa.  His  fowls, 
his  ducks,  his  geese,  could  not  show  so  much  as  a  gray  feather 
among  them,  and  he  would  have  given  a  year's  earnings  for  a  white 
peacock.  The  flowers  which  decked  his  little  door-yard  were  whitest 
China  asters  and  goldenest  sunflowers,  which  last,  backsliding  from 
their  traditional  Parsee  faith,  used  to  puzzle  us  urchins  not  a  little 
by  staring  brazenly  every  way  except  towards  the  sun.  Celery,  too, 
he  raised,  whose  virtue  is  its  paleness,  and  the  silvery  onion,  and 
turnip,  which,  though  outwardly  conforming  to  the  green  heresies 
of  summer,  nourish  a  purer  faith  subterraneously,  like  early  Chris- 
tians in  the  catacombs.  In  an  obscure  corner  grew  the  sanguine 
beet,  tolerated  only  for  its  usefulness  in  allaying  the  asperities  of 
Saturday's  salt  fish.  He  loved  winter  better  than  summer,  because 
Nature  then  played  the  white-washer,  and  challenged  with  her  snows 
the  scarce  inferior  purity  of  his  overalls  and  neckcloth.  I  fancy 
that  he  never  rightly  liked  Commencement,  for  bringing  so  many 
black  coats  together.  He  founded  no  school.  Others  might  essay 
his  art,  and  were  allowed  to  try  their  prentice  hands  on  fences  and 
the  like  coarse  subjects,  but  the  ceiling  of  every  housewife  waited 
on  the  leisure  of  Newman  (ichneu7non  the  students  called  him,  for 
his  diminutiveness),  nor  would  consent  to  other  brush  than  his. 
There  was  also  but  one  brewer  (Lewis),  who  made  the  village  beer, 
both  spruce  and  ginger,  a  grave  and  amiable  Ethiopian,  making  a 


424  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

discount  always  to  the  boys,  and  wisely,  for  they  were  his  chiefest 
patrons.  He  wheeled  his  whole  stock  in  a  white-roofed  handcart, 
on  whose  front  a  sign-board  presented,  at  either  end,  an  insurrec- 
tionary bottle  —  yet  insurgent  after  no  mad  Gallic  fashion,  but  soberly 
and  Saxonly  discharging  itself  into  the  restraining  formulary  of  a 
tumbler,  symbolic  of  orderly  prescription.  The  artist  had  struggled 
manfully  with  the  difficulties  of  his  subject,  but  had  not  succeeded 
so  well  that  we  did  not  often  debate  in  which  of  the  twin  bottles 
Spruce  was  typified,  and  in  which  Ginger.  We  always  believed  that 
Lewis  mentally  distinguished  between  them,  but  by  some  peculiarity 
occult  to  exoteric  eyes.  This  ambulatory  chapel  of  the  Bacchus 
that  gives  the  colic,  but  not  inebriates,  only  appeared  at  the  Com- 
mencement holidays,  and  the  lad  who  bought  of  Lewis  laid  out  his 
money  well,  getting  respect  as  well  as  beer,  three  sirs  to  every  glass, 
—  "  Beer,  sir  ?  yes,  sir  :  spruce  or  ginger,  sir  ?  "  I  can  yet  recall 
the  innocent  pride  with  which  I  walked  away  after  that  somewhat 
risky  ceremony  (for  a  bottle  sometimes  blew  up),  dilated  not  alone 
with  carbonic-acid  gas,  but  with  the  more  ethereal  fixed  air  of  that 
titular  flattery.  Nor  was  Lewis  proud.  When  he  tried  his  fortunes 
in  the  capital  on  election  days,  and  stood  amid  a  row  of  rival  vend- 
ers in  the  very  flood  of  custom,  he  never  forgot  his  small  fellow- 
citizens,  but  welcomed  them  with  an  assuring  smile,  and  served 
them  with  the  first. 


[From  Among  My  Books.] 
THE   COUNTRY   SCHOOL. 

PASSING  through  some  Massachusetts  village,  perhaps  at  a  dis- 
tance from  any  house,  it  may  be  in  the  midst  of  a  piece  of  woods 
where  four  roads  meet,  one  may  sometimes  even  yet  see  a  small, 
square,  one-story  building,  whose  use  would  not  be  long  doubtful. 
It  is  summer,  and  the  flickering  shadows  of  forest  leaves  dapple  the 
roof  of  the  little  porch,  whose  door  stands  wide,  and  shows,  hanging 
on  either  hand,  rows  of  straw  hats  and  bonnets,  that  look  as  if  they 
had  done  good  service.  As  you  pass  the  open  windows  you  hear 
whole  platoons  of  high-pitched  voices  discharging  words  of  two  or 
three  syllables  with  wonderful  precision  and  unanimity.  Then  there 
is  a  pause,  and  the  voice  of  the  officer  in  command  is  Jieard  reprov- 
ing some  raw  recruit,  whose  vocal  musket  hung  fire.  Then  the 
drill  of  the  small  infantry  begins  anew,  but  pauses  again  because 
some  urchin  —  who  agrees  with  Voltaire  that  the  superfluous  is  a 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL.  42$ 

very  necessary  thing  —  insists  on  spelling  "subtraction"  with  an 
s  too  much. 

If  you  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  born  and  bred  in  the  Bay  State, 
your  mind  is  thronged  with  half-sad,  half-humorous  recollections. 
The  a-b  abs  of  little  voices,  long  since  hushed  in  the  mould,  or  ring- 
ing now  in  the  pulpit,  at  the  bar,  or  in  the  senate-chamber,  come 
back  to  the  ear  of  memory.  You  remember  the  high  stool  on  which 
culprits  used  to  be  elevated,  with  the  tall  paper  fool's-cap  on  their 
heads,  blushing  to  the  ears  ;  and  you  think  with  wonder  how  you 
have  seen  them  since  as  men  climbing  the  world's  penance-stools 
of  ambition  without  a  blush,  and  gladly  giving  everything  for  life's 
caps  and  bells.  And  you  have  pleasanter  memories  of  going  after 
pond-lilies,  of  angling  for  horn-pouts,  —  that  queer  bat  among  tRe 
fishes,  —  of  nutting,  of  walking  over  the  creaking  snow-crust  in  win- 
ter, when  the  warm  breath  of  every  household  was  curling, up  silently 
in  the  keen  blue  air.  You  wonder  if  life  has  any  rewards  more 
solid  and  permanent  than  the  Spanish  dollar  that  was  hung  around 
your  neck  to  be  restored  again  next  day,  and  conclude  sadly  that  it 
was  but  too  true  a  prophecy  and  emblem  of  all  worldly  success. 
But  your  moralizing  is  broken  short  off  by  a  rattle  of  feet  and  the 
pouring  forth  of  the  whole  swarm,  —  the  boys  dancing  and  shouting, 
—  the  mere  effervescence  of  the  fixed  air  of  youth  and  animal  spirits 
uncorked;  the  sedater  girls  in  confidential  twos  and  threes  decant- 
ing secrets  out  of  the  mouth  of  one  cape-bonnet  into  that  of  another. 
Times  have  changed  since  the  jackets  and  trousers  used  to  draw 
up  on  one  side  of  the  road,  and  the  petticoats  on  the  other,  to  salute 
with  bow  and  courtesy  the  white  neckcloth  of  the  parson  or  the 
squire,  if  it  chanced  to  pass  during  intermission. 

Now  this  little  building,  and  others  like  it,  were  an  original  kind 
of  fortification  invented  by  the  founders  of  New  England.  They 
are  the  martello-towers  that  protect  our  coast.  This  was  the  great 
discovery  of  our  Puritan  forefathers.  They  were  the  first  lawgivers 
who  saw  clearly,  and  enforced  practically,  the  simple,  moral,  and 
political  truth  that  knowledge  was  not  an  alms  to  be  dependent  on 
the  chance  charity  of  private  men,  or  the  precarious  pittance  of  a 
trust-fund,  but  a  sacred  debt  which  the  commonwealth  owed  to 
every  one  of  her  children.  The  opening  of  the  first  grammar  school 
was  the  opening  of  the  first  trench  against  monopoly  in  church  and 
state  ;  the  first  row  of  trammels  and  pothooks  which  the  little 
Shearjashubs  and  Elkanahs  blotted  and  blubbered  across  their  copy- 
books, was  the  preamble  to  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 


426  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

[From  My  Study  Windows.] 
MY   GARDEN   ACQUAINTANCE. 

THE  return  of  the  robin  is  commonly  announced  by  the  news- 
papers, like  that  of  eminent  or  notorious  people  to  a  watering-place, 
as  the  first  authentic  notification  of  spring.  And  such  his  appear- 
ance in  the  orchard  and  garden  undoubtedly  is.  But,  in  spite  of 
his  name  of  migratory  thrush,  he  stays  with  us  all  winter,  and  I 
have  seen  him  when  the  thermometer  marked  fifteen  degrees  below 
zero  of  Fahrenheit,  armed  impregnably  within,  like  Emerson's  Tit- 
mouse, and  as  cheerful  as  he.  The  robin  has  a  bad  reputation 
among  people  who  do  not  value  themselves  less  for  being  fond  of 
cherries.  There  is,  I  admit,  a  spice  of  vulgarity  in  him,  and  his  song 
is  rather  of  the  Bloomfield  sort,  too  largely  ballasted  with  prose. 
His  ethics  are  of  the  Poor  Richard  school,  and  the  main  chance 
which  calls  forth  all  his  energy  is  altogether  of  the  belly.  He  never 
has  those  fine  intervals  of  lunacy  into  which  his  cousins,  the  catbird 
and  the  mavis,  are  apt  to  fall.  But  for  a'  that  and  twice  as  muckle  's 
a'  that,  I  would  not  exchange  him  for  all  the  cherries  that  ever  came 
out  of  Asia  Minor.  With  whatever  faults,  he  has  not  wholly  for- 
feited that  superiority  which  belongs  to  the  children  of  nature.  He 
has  a  finer  taste  in  fruit  than  could  be  distilled  from  many  successive 
committees  of  the  Horticultural  Society,  and  he  eats  with  a  relishing 
gulp  not  inferior  to  Dr.  Johnson's.  He  feels  and  freely  exercises 
his  right  of  eminent  domain.  His  is  the  earliest  mess  of  green  peas  ; 
his  all  the  mulberries  I  had  fancied  mine.  But  if  he  get  also  the 
lion's  share  of  the  raspberries,  he  is  a  great  planter,  and  sows  those 
wild  ones  in  the  woods,  that  solace  the  pedestrian  and  give  a  mo- 
mentary calm  even  to  the  jaded  victims  of  the  White  Hills.  He 
keeps  a  strict  eye  over  one's  fruit,  and  knows  to  a  shade  of  purple 
when  your  grapes  have  cooked  long  enough  in  the  sun.  During  the 
severe  drought  a  few  years  ago,  the  robins  wholly  vanished  from  my 
garden.  I  neither  saw  nor  heard  one  for  three  weeks.  Meanwhile 
a  small  foreign  grape-vine,  rather  shy  of  bearing,  seemed  to  find  the 
dusty  air  congenial,  and,  dreaming  perhaps  of  its  sweet  Argos  across 
the  sea,  decked  itself  with  a  score  or  so  of  fair  bunches.  I  watched 
them  from  day  to  day  till  they  should  have  secreted  sugar  enough 
from  the  sunbeams,  and  at  last  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  cele- 
brate my  vintage  the  next  morning.  But  the  robins,  too,  had  some- 
how kept  note  of  them.  They  must  have  sent  out  spies,  as  did  the 
Jews  into  the  promised  land,  before  I  was  stirring.  When  I  went 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL.  427 

with  my  basket,  at  least  a  dozen  of  these  winged  vintagers  bustled 
out  from  among  the  leaves,  and,  alighting  on  the  nearest  trees,  inter- 
changed some  shrill  remarks  about  me  of  a  derogatory  nature.  They 
had  fairly  sacked  the  vine.  Not  Wellington's  veterans  made  cleaner 
work  of  a  Spanish  town ;  not  Federals  or  Confederates  were  ever 
more  impartial  in  the  confiscation  of  neutral  chickens.  I  was  keep- 
ing my  grapes  a  secret  to  surprise  the  fair  Fidele  with,  but  the  robins 
made  them  a  profounder  secret  to  her  than  I  had  meant.  The  tat- 
tered remnant  of  a  single  bunch  was  all  my  harvest-home.  How 
paltry  it  looked  at  the  bottom  of  my  basket  —  as  if  a  humming-bird 
had  laid  her  egg  in  an  eagle's  nest !  I  could  not  help  laughing ; 
and  the  robins  seemed  to  join  heartily  in  the  merriment.  There  was 
a  native  grape-vine  close  by,  blue  with  its  less  refined  abundance, 
but  my  cunning  thieves  preferred  the  foreign  flavor.  Could  I  tax 
them  with  want  of  taste  ? 

The  robins  are  not  good  solo  singers,  but  their  chorus,  as,  like 
primitive  fire-worshippers,  they  hail  the  return  of  light  and  warmth 
to  the  world,  is  unrivalled.  There  are  a  hundred  singing  like  one. 
They  are  noisy  enough  then,  and  sing,  as  poets  should,  with  no 
afterthought.  But  when  they  come  after  cherries  to  the  tree  near 
my  window,  they  muffle  their  voices,  and  their  faint  pip,  pip,  pop  ! 
sounds  far  away  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  where  they  know  I 
shall  not  suspect  them  of  robbing  the  great  black-walnut  of  its  bitter- 
rinded  store.  They  are  feathered  Pecksniffs,  to  be  sure  ;  but  then 
how  brightly  their  breasts,  that  look  rather  shabby  in  the  sunlight, 
shine  in  a  rainy  day  against  the  dark  green  of  the  fringe-tree  !  After 
they  have  pinched  and  shaken  all  the  life  out  of  an  earthworm,  as 
Italian  cooks  pound  all  the  spirit  out  of  a  steak,  and  then  gulped 
him,  they  stand  up  in  honest  self-confidence,  expand  their  red  waist- 
coats with  the  virtuous  air  of  a  lobby-member,  and  outface  you  with 
an  eye  that  calmly  challenges  inquiry.  "  Do  I  look  like  a  bird  that 
knows  the  flavor  of  raw  vermin  ?  I  throw  myself  upon  a  jury  of  my 
peers.  Ask  any  robin  if  he  ever  ate  anything  less  ascetic  than  the 
frugal  berry  of  the  juniper,  and  he  will  answer  that  his  vow  forbids 
him."  Can  such  an  open  bosom  cover  such  depravity  ?  Alas  !  yes. 
I  have  no  doubt  his  breast  was  redder  at  that  very  moment  with  the 
blood  of  my  raspberries.  On  the  whole,  he  is  a  doubtful  friend  in 
the  garden.  He  makes  his  dessert  of  all  kinds  of  berries,  and  is  not 
averse  from  early  peas.  But  when  we  remember  how  omnivorous 
he  is,  eating  his  own  weight  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  and  that 
Nature  seems  exhaustless  in  her  invention  of  new  insects  hostile  to 


428  HAND-BOOfC    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

vegetation,  perhaps  we  may  reckon  that  he  does  more  good  than 
harm.  For  my  own  part,  I  would  rather  have  his  cheerfulness  and 
kind  neighborhood  than  many  berries. 


[One  of  the  notes  of  "  Mr.  Homer  Wilbur,"  in  The  Biglow  Papers.] 
THE   NEWSPAPER. 

"  WONDERFUL,  to  him  that  has  eyes  to  see  it  rightly,  is  the  news- 
paper. To  me,  for  example,  sitting  on  the  critical  front  bench  of  the 
pit,  in  my  study  here  in  Jaalam,  the  advent  of  my  weekly  journal  is 
as  that  of  a  strolling  theatre,  or  rather  of  a  puppet-show,  on  whose 
stage,  narrow  as  it  is,  the  tragedy,  comedy,  and  farce  of  life  are 
played  in  little.  Behold  the  whole  huge  earth  sent  to  me  hebdoma- 
dally  in  a  brown-paper  wrapper  ! 

"Hither,  to  my  obscure  corner,  by  wind  or  steam,  on  horseback 
or  dromedary-back,  in  the  pouch  of  the  Indian  runner  or  clicking 
over  the  magnetic  wires,  troop  all  the  famous  performers  from  the 
four  quarters  of  the  globe.  Looked  at  from  a  point  of  criticism,  tiny 
puppets  they  seem  all,  as  the  editor  sets  up  his  booth  upon  my  desk, 
and  officiates  as  showman.  Now  I  can  truly  see  how  little  and  tran- 
sitory is  life.  The  earth  appears  almost  as  a  drop  of  vinegar,  on 
which  the  solar  microscope  of  the  imagination  must  be  brought  to 
bear  in  order  to  make  out  anything  distinctly.  That  animalcule 
there,  in  the  pea-jacket,  is  Louis  Philippe,  just  landed  on  the  coast 
of  England.  That  other,  in  the  gray  surtout  and  cocked  hat,  is  Na- 
poleon Bonaparte  Smith,  assuring  France  that  she  need  apprehend 
no  interference  from  him  in  the  present  alarming  juncture.  At  that 
spot  where  you  seem  to  see  a  speck  of  something  in  motion,  is  an 
immense  mass-meeting.  Look  sharper,  and  you  will  see  a  mite 
brandishing  his  mandibles  in  an  excited  manner.  That  is  the  great 
Mr.  Soandso,  defining  his  position,  amid  tumultuous  and  irrepressi- 
ble cheers.  That  infinitesimal  creature,  upon  whom  some  score  of 
others,  as  minute  as  he,  are  gazing  in  open-mouthed  admiration,  is 
a  famous  philosopher,  expounding  to  a  select  audience  their  capacity 
for  the  Infinite.  That  scarce-discernible  pufflet  of  smoke  and  dust 
is  a  revolution.  That  speck  there  is  a  reformer,  just  arranging  the 
lever  with  which  he .  is  to  move  the  world.  And  lo  !  there  creeps 
forward  the  shadow  of  a  skeleton,  that  blows  one  breath  between  its 
grinning  teeth,  and  all  our  distinguished  actors  are  whisked  off  the 
slippery  stage  into  the  dark  Beyond. 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL.  429 

"Yes,  the  little  show-box  has  its  solemner  suggestions.  Now 
and  then  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  grim  old  man,  who  lays  down 
a  scythe  and  hour-glass  in  the  corner  while  he  shifts  the  scenes. 
There,  too,  in  the  dim  background,  a  weird  shape  is  ever  delving. 
Sometimes  he  leans  upon  his  mattock,  and  gazes,  as  a  coach 
whirls  by,  bearing  the  newly-married  on  their  wedding  jaunt,  or 
glances  carelessly  at  a  babe  brought  home  from  christening.  Sud- 
denly (for  the  scene  grows  larger  and  larger  as  we  look)  a  bony 
hand  snatches  back  a  performer  in  the  midst  of  his  part,  and  him, 
whom  yesterday  two  infinities  (past  and  future)  would  not  suffice, 
a  handful  of  dust  is  enough  to  cover  and  silence  forever.  Nay, 
we  see  the  same  fleshless  fingers  opening  to  clutch  the  showman 
himself,  and  guess,  not  without  a  shudder,  that  they  are  lying  in 
wait  for  spectator  also. 

"  Think  of  it :  for  three  dollars  a  year  I  buy  a  season-ticket  to 
this  great  Globe  Theatre,  for  which  God  would  write  the  dramas 
(only  that  we  like  farces,  spectacles,  and  the  tragedies  of  Apollyon 
better),  whose  scene-shifter  is  Time,  and  whose  curtain  is  rung 
down  by  Death. 

"  Such  thoughts  will  occur  to  me  sometimes,  as  I  am  tearing 
off  the  wrapper  of  my  newspaper.  Then  suddenly  that  otherwise 
too  often  vacant  sheet  becomes  invested  for  me  with  a  strange  kind 
of  awe.  Look  !  deaths  and  marriages,  notices  of  inventions,  dis- 
coveries, and  books,  lists  of  promotions,  of  killed,  wounded,  and 
missing,  news  of  fires,  accidents,  of  sudden  wealth,  and  as  sudden 
poverty, —  I  hold  in  my  hand  the  ends  of  myriad  invisible  electric 
conductors,  along  which  tremble  the  joys,  sorrows,  wrongs,  triumphs, 
hopes,  and  despairs  of  as  many  men  and  women  everywhere.  So  that 
upon  that  mood  of  mind  which  seems  to  isolate  me  from  mankind  as 
a  spectator  of  their  puppet-pranks,  another  supervenes,  in  which  I 
feel  that  I,  too,  unknown  and  unheard  of,  am  yet  of  some  import  to 
my  fellows.  For,  through  my  newspaper  here,  do  not  families  take 
pains  to  send  me,  an  entire  stranger,  news  of  a  death  among  them  ? 
Are  not  here  two  who  would  have  me  know  of  their  marriage  ?  And, 
strangest  of  all,  is  not  this  singular  person  anxious  to  have  me  in- 
formed that  he  has  received  a  fresh  supply  of  Dimitry  Bruisgins  ? 
But  to  none  of  us  does  the  Present  (even  if  for  a  moment  discerned 
as  such)  continue  miraculous.  We  glance  carelessly  at  the  sun- 
rise, and  get  used  to  Orion  and  the  Pleiades.  The  wonder  wears 
off,  and  to-morrow  this  sheet,  in  which  a  vision  was  let  down  to  me 
from  heaven,  shall  be  the  wrapper  to  a  bar  of  soap  or  the  platter  for 
a  beggar's  broken  victuals."  H.  w. 


43°  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


BEAVER   BROOK. 

HUSHED  with  broad  sunlight  lies  the  hill, 
And,  minuting  the  long  day's  loss, 

The  cedar's  shadow,  slow  and  still 
Creeps  o'er  its  dial  of  gray  moss. 

Warm  noon  brims  full  the  valley's  cup, 
The  aspen's  leaves  are  scarce  astir  ; 

Only  the  little  mill  sends  up 
Its  busy,  never-ceasing  burr. 

Climbing  the  loose-piled  .wall  that  hems 
The  road  along  the  mill-pond's  brink, 

From  'neath  the  arching  barberry  stems, 
My  footstep  scares  the  shy  chewink. 

Beneath  a  bony  buttonwood, 

The  mill's  red  door  lets  forth  the  din  ; 
The  whitened  miller,  dust-imbued, 

Flits  past  the  square  of  dark  within. 

No  mountain  torrent's  strength  is  here ; 

Sweet  Beaver,  child  of  forest  still, 
Heaps  its  small  pitcher  to  the  ear, 

And  gently  waits  the  miller's  will.     , 

Swift  slips  Undine  along  the  race 

Unheard,  and  then,  with  flashing  bound, 

Floods  the  dull  wheel  with  light  and  grace, 
And,  laughing,  hunts  the  loath  drudge  round. 

The  miller  dreams  not  at  what  cost 

The  quivering  mill-stones  hum  and  whirl, 

Nor  ho\v,  for  every  turn,  are  tossed 
Armfuls  of  diamond  and  pearl. 

But  Summer  cleared  my  happier  eyes 
With  drops  of  some  celestial  juice, 

To  see  how  Beauty  underlies 
Forevermore  each  form  of  Use. 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL.  431 

And  more  :  methought  I  saw  that  flood, 
Which  now  so  dull  and  darkling  steals, 

Thick,  here  and  there,  with  human  blood, 
To  turn  the  world's  laborious  wheels. 

No  more  than  doth  the  miller  there, 

Shut  in  our  several  cells,  do  we 
Know  with  what  waste  of  beauty  rare 

Moves  every  day's  machinery. 

Surely  the  wiser  time  shall  come 

When  this  fine  overplus  of  might, 
No  longer  sullen,  slow,  and  dumb, 

Shall  leap  to  music  and  to  light 

In  that  new  childhood  of  the  Earth, 

Life  of  itself  shall  dance  and  play, 
Fresh  blood  in  Time's  shrunk  veins  make  mirth, 

And  labor  meet  delight  half  way. 


AMBROSE. 

NEVER,  surely,  was  holier  man 

Than  Ambrose,  since  the  world  began  ; 

With  diet  spare  and  raiment  thin, 

He  shielded  himself  from  the  father  of  sin  ; 

With  bed  of  iron  and  scourgings  oft, 

His  heart  to  God's  hand  as  wax  made  soft. 

Through  earnest  prayer  and  watchings  long 
He  sought  to  know  'twixt  right  and  wrong, 
Much  wrestling  with  the  blessed  Word 
To  make  it  yield  the  sense  of  the  Lord, 
That  he  might  build  a  storm-proof  creed 
To  fold  the  flock  in  at  their  need. 

At  last  he  builded  a  perfect  faith, 

Fenced  round  about  with  The  Lord  thus  saith; 

To  himself  he  fitted  the  doorway's  size, 

Meted  the  light  to  the  need  of  his  eyes,          , 

And  knew,  by  a  sure  and  inward  sign, 

That  the  work  of  his  fingers  was  divine. 


432  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Then  Ambrose  said,  "  All  those  shall  die 
The  eternal  death  who  believe  not  as  I  ;  " 
And  some  were  boiled,  some  burned  in  fire, 
Some  sawn  in  twain,  that  his  heart's  desire 
For  the  good  of  men's  souls  might  be  satisfied, 
By  the  drawing  of  all  to  the  righteous  side. 

One  day,  as  Ambrose  was  seeking  the  truth 

In  his  lonely  walk,  he  saw  a  youth 

Resting  himself  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  ; 

It  had  never  been  given  him  to  see 

So  shining  a  face,  and  the  good  man  thought 

'Twere  pity  he  should  not  believe  as  he  ought. 

So  he  set  himself  by  the  young  man's  side, 
And  the  state  of  his  soul  with  questions  tried  ; 
But  the  heart  of  the  stranger  was  hardened  indeed, 
Nor  received  the  stamp  of  the  one  true  creed  ; 
And  the  spirit  of  Ambrose  waxed  sore  to  find 
Such  face  the  porch  of  so  narrow  a  mind. 

"  As  each  beholds  in  cloud  and  fire 

The  shape  that  answers  his  own  desire, 

So  each,"  said  the  youth,  "  in  the  Law  shall  find 

The  figure  and  features  of  his  mind  ; 

And  to  each  in  his  mercy  hath  God  allowed 

His  several  pillar  of  fire  and  cloud." 

The  soul  of  Ambrose  burned  with  zeal 
And  holy  wrath  for  the  young  man's  weal. 
"  Believest  thou  then,  most  wretched  youth," 
Cried  he,  "  a  dividual  essence  in  Truth  ? 
I  fear  me  thy  heart  is  too  cramped  with  sin 
To  take  the  Lord  in  his  glory  in." 

Now  there  bubbled  beside  them  where  they  stood, 

A  fountain  of  waters  sweet  and  good  ; 

The  youth  to  the  streamlet's  brink  drew  near, 

Saying,  "  Ambrose,  thou  maker  of  creeds,  look  here  !  " 

Six  vases  of  crystal  then  he  took, 

And  set  them  along  the  edge  of  the  brook. 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL.  433 

"  As  into  these  vessels  the  water  I  pour, 
There  shall  one  hold  less,  another  more, 
And  the  water  unchanged,  in  every  case, 
Shall  put  on  the  figure  of  the  vase  ; 
O  thou,  who  wouldst  unity  make  through  strife, 
Canst  thou  fit  this  sign  to  the  Water  of  Life  ? " 

When  Ambrose  looked  up,  he  stood  alone ; 

The  youth,  and  the  stream,  and  the  vases  were  gone ; 

But  he  knew,  by  a  sense  of  humbled  grace, 

He  had  talked  with  an  angel  face  to  face, 

And  felt  his  heart  change  inwardly 

As  he  fell  on  his  knees  beneath  the  tree. 


THE   DEAD   HOUSE. 

HERE  once  my  step  was  quickened, 

Here  beckoned  the  opening  door, 
And  welcome  thrilled  from  the  threshold 

To  the  foot  it  had  known  before. 

A  glow  came  forth  to  meet  me 

From  the  flame  that  laughed  in  the  grate, 
And  shadows  adance  on  the  ceiling 

Danced  blithe  with  mine  for  a  mate. 

"  I  claim  you,  old  friend,"  yawned  the  arm-chair  ; 

"  This  corner,  you  know,  is  your  seat ; " 
'•  Rest  your  slippers  on  me,"  beamed  the  fender  ; 

"  I  brighten  at  touch  of  your  feet." 

"  We  know  the  practised  finger," 
Said  the  books,  "  that  seems  like  brain  ;  " 

And  the  shy  page  rustled  the  secret 
It  had  kept  till  I  came  again. 

Sang  the  pillow,  "  My  down  once  quivered 

On  nightingales'  throats  that  flew 
Through  moonlit  gardens  of  Hafiz 

To  gather  quaint  dreams  for  you." 
28 


434  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Ah  me,  where  the  Past  sowed  heart's-ease, 
The  Present  plucks  rue  for  us  men  ! 

I  come  back  :  that  scar  unhealing 
Was  not  in  the  churchyard  then. 

But,  I  think,  the  house  is  unaltered  ; 

I  will  go  and  beg  to  look 
At  the  rooms  that  were  once  familiar 

To  my  life  as  its  bed  to  a  brook. 

Unaltered  !  alas  for  the  sameness 
That  makes  the  change  but  more  ! 

'Tis  a  dead  man  I  see  in  the  mirrors, 
'Tis  his  tread  that  chills  the  floor  ! 

To  learn  such  a  simple  lesson, 
Need  I  go  to  Paris  and  Rome, 

That  the  many  make  the  household, 
But  only  one  the  home  ? 

'Twas  just  a  womanly  presence, 

An  influence  unexpressed ; 
But  a  rose  she  had  worn,  on  my  grave-sod 

Were  more  than  long  life  with  the  rest ! 

'Twas  a  smile,  'twas  a  garment's  rustle, 
'Twas  nothing  that  I  can  phrase, 

But  the  whole  dumb  dwelling  grew  conscious, 
And  put  on  her  looks  and  ways. 

Were  it  mine  I  would  close  the  shutters, 
Like  lids  when  the  life  is  fled, 

And  the  funeral  fire  should  wind  it, 
This  corpse  of  a  home  that  is  dead. 

For  it  died  that  autumn  morning 
When  she,  its  soul,  was  borne 

To  lie  all  dark  on  the  hill-side 

That  looks  over  woodland  and  corn. 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL.  435 


THE   FIRST    SNOW-FALL. 

THE  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 

Every  pine,  and  fir,  and  hemlock, 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tree 
Was  ridged  inch-deep  with  pearl. 

From  sheds  new-roofed  with  Carrara 
Came  chanticleer's  muffled  crow  ; 

The  stiff  rails  were  softened  to  swan's  down, 
And  still  fluttered  down  the  snow. 

I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 

The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 
And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds, 

Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 

I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 
Where  a  little  headstone  stood  ; 

How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 
As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood. 

Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,  "  Father,  who  makes  it  snow  ?  " 

And  I  told  of  the  good  All-father 
Who  cares  for  us  here  below. 

Again  I  looked  at  the  snow-fall, 
And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky, 

That  arched  o'er  our  first  great  sorrow, 
When  that  mound  was  heaped  so  high. 

I  remembered  the  gradual  patience 
That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow, 

Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  of  our  deep-plunged  woe. 


43^       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

And  again  to  the  child  I  whispered, 

"  The  snow  that  husheth  all, 
Darling,  the  merciful  Father 
Alone  can  make  it  fall !  " 

Then,  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  I  kissed  her ; 

And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 
That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister, 

Folded  close  under  deepening  snow. 


ALADDIN. 

WHEN  I  was  a  beggarly  boy, 

And  lived  in  a  cellar  damp, 
I  had  not  a  friend  nor  a  toy, 

But  I  had  Aladdin's  lamp  ; 
When  I  could  not  sleep  for  cold, 

I  had  fire  enough  in  my  brain, 
And  builded,  with  roofs  of  gold, 

My  beautiful  castles  in  Spain  ! 

Since  then  I  have  toiled  day  and  night, 

I  have  money  and  power  good  store, 
But  I'd  give  all  my  lamps  of  silver  bright 

For  the  one  that  is  mine  no  more  :  , 
Take,  Fortune,  whatever  you  choose ; 

You  gave,  and  may  snatch  again  ; 
I  have  nothing  'twould  pain  me  to  lose, 

For  I  own  no  more  castles  in  Spain ! 


[From  the  Biglow  Papers.  —Second  Series.] 

SUMTHIN'  IN  THE  PASTORAL  LINE. 

ONCE  git  a  smell  o'  musk  into  a  draw, 

An'  it  clings  hold  like  precerdents  in  law : 

Your  gra'ma'am  put  it  there  —  when,  goodness  knows  • 

To  jes'  this-worldify  her  Sunday  clo'es  ; 

But  the  old  chist  wun't  sarve  her  gran'son's  wife 

(For,  'thout  new  funnitoor,  wut  good  in  life  ?) 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL.  437 

An'  so  ole  clawfoot,  from  the  precinks  dread 
O'  the  spare  chamber,  slinks  into  the  shed, 
Where,  dim  with  dust,  it  fust  or  last  subsides 
To  holdin'  seeds  an'  fifty  things  besides  ; 
But  better  days  stick  fast  in  heart  an'  husk, 
An'  all  you  keep  in't  gits  a  scent  o'  musk. 


Jes'  so  with  poets  :  wut  they've  airly  read 

Gits  kind  o'  worked  into  their  heart  an'  head, 

So  's't  they  can't  seem  to  write  but  jest  on  sheers 

With  furrin  countries  or  played-out  ideers, 

Nor  hev  a  feelin',  ef  it  doesn't  smack 

O'  wut  some  critter  chose  to  feel  'way  back  : 

This  makes  'em  talk  o'  daises,  larks,  an'  things, 

Es  though  we'd  nothin'  here  that  blows  an'  sings  — 

(Why,  I'd  give  more  for  one  live  bobolink 

Than  a  square  mile  o'  larks  in  printer's  ink),  — 

This  makes  'em  think  our  fust  o'  May  is  May, 

Which  'tain't,  for  all  the  almanicks  can  say. 

0,  little  city-gals,  don't  never  go  it 
Blind  on  the  word  o'  noospaper  or  poet ! 
They're  apt  to  puff,  an'  May-day  seldom  looks 
Up  in  the  country  ez  it  doos  in  books  ; 

They're  no  more  like  than  hornets'-nests  an'  hives, 
Or  printed  sarmons  be  to  holy  lives. 

1,  with  my  trouses  perched  on  cow-hide  boots, 
Tuggin'  my  foundered  feet  out  by  the  roots, 
Hev  seen  ye  come  to  fling  on  April's  hearse 
Your  muslin  nosegays  from  the  milliner's, 
Puzzlin'  to  find  dry  ground  your  queen  to  choose, 
An'  dance  your  throats  sore  in  morocker  shoes : 
I've  seen  ye  an'  felt  proud,  thet,  come  wut  would, 
Our  Pilgrim  stock  wuz  pithed  with  hardihood. 
Pleasure  does  make  us  Yankees  kind  o'  winch, 
Ez  though  'twuz  sumthin'  paid  for  by  the  inch ; 
But  yit  we  du  contrive  to  worry  thru, 

Ef  Booty  tells  us  thet  the  things  to  du, 
An'  kerry  a  hollerday,  ef  we  set  out, 
Ez  stiddily  ez  though  'twuz  a  redoubt. 


438  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

I,  country-born  an'  bred,  know  where  to  find 
Some  blooms  thet  make  the  season  suit  the  mind, 
An'  seem  to  metch  the  doubtin'  bluebird's  notes,  — 
Half-vent'rin'  liverworts  in  furry  coats, 
Bloodroots,  whose  rolled-up  leaves  ef  you  oncurl, 
Each  on  em's  cradle  to  a  baby-pearl,  — 
But  these  are  jes'  Spring's  pickets  ;  sure  ez  sin, 
The  rebble  frosts  '11  try  to  drive  'em  in ; 
For  half  our  May  's  so  awfully  like  May  n't 
'Twould  rile  a  Shaker  or  an  evn'ge  saint ; 
Though  I  own  up  I  like  our  back'ard  springs 
Thet  kind  o'  haggle  with  their  greens  an'  things, 
An'  when  you  'most  give  up,  'ithout  more  words, 
Toss  the  fields  full  o'  blossoms,  leaves,  an'  bird's : 
Thet's  Northun  natur',  slow  an'  apt  to  doubt, 
But  when  it  doos  git  stirred,  there's  no  gin-out ! 

Fust  come  the  blackbirds  clatt'rin'  in  tall  trees, 
An'  settlin'  things  in  windy  Congresses  — 
Queer  politicians,  though,  for  I'll  be  skinned 
Ef  all  on  'em  don't  head  against  the  wind. 
'Fore  long  the  trees  begin  to  show  belief, 
The  maple  crimsons  to  a  coral-reef, 
Then  saffern  swarms  swing  off  from  all  the  willers, 
So  plump  they  look  like  yaller  caterpillars, 
Then  gray  hossches'nuts  leetle  hands  unfold 
Softer'n  a  baby's  be  a'  three  days  old  : 
Thet's  robin-redbreast's  almanick  ;  he  knows 
Thet  arter  this  ther'  's  only  blossom-snows  ; 
So,  choosin'  out  a  handy  crotch  an'  spouse, 
He  goes  to  plast'rin'  his  adobe  house. 

Then  seems  to  come  a  hitch,  —  things  lag  behind, 
Till  some  fine  mornin'  Spring  makes  up  her  mind, 
An'  ez,  when  snow-swelled  rivers  cresh  their  dams 
Heaped  up  with  ice  thet  dovetails  in  an'  jams, 
A  leak  comes  spirtin'  thru  some  pin-hole  cleft, 
Grows  stronger,  fercer,  tears  out  right  an'  left, 
Then  all  the  waters  bow  themselves  an'  come, 
Suddin,  in  one  gret  slope  o'  shedderin'  foam, 
Jes'  so  our  Spring  gits  everythin'  in  tune 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL.  439 

An'  gives  one  leap  from  April  into  June  ; 
Then  all  comes  crowdin'  in  ;  afore  you  think, 
Young  oak-leaves  mist  the  side-hill  woods  with  pink; 
The  catbird  in  the  laylock-bush  is  loud ; 
The  orchards  turn  to  heaps  o'  rosy  cloud ; 
Red-cedars  blossom  tu,  though  few  folks  know  it, 
An'  look  all  dipt  in  sunshine  like  a  poet ; 
The  lime-trees  pile  their  solid  stacks  o'  shade 
An'  drows'ly  simmer  with  the  bees'  sweet  trade ; 
In  ellum-shrouds  the  flashin'  hangbird  clings, 
An'  for  the  summer  vy'ge  his  hammock  slings  ; 
All  down  the  loose-walled  lanes  in  archin'  bowers 
The  barb'ry  droops  its  strings  o'  golden  flowers, 
Whose  shrinkin'  hearts  the  school-gals  love  to  try 
With  pins  —  they'll  worry  yourn  so,  boys,  bimeby  ! 
But  I  don't  love  your  cat'logue  style  —  do  you  ?  — 
Ez  ef  to  sell  off  Natur'  by  vendoo  ; 
One  word  with  blood  in't  's  twice  ez  good  ez  two : 
'Nuff  sed,  June's  bridesman,  poet  o'  the  year, 
Gladness  on  wings,  the  bobolink,  is  here  ; 
Half-hid  in  tip-top  apple-blooms  he  swings, 
Or  climbs  aginst  the  breeze  with  quiverin'  wings, 
Or,  givin'  way  to  't  in  a  mock  despair, 
Runs  down,  a  brook  o'  laughter,  thru  the  air. 


A  FEW  STANZAS  FROM  "THE  PRESENT  CRISIS." 

ONCE  to  every  man  or  nation  comes  the  moment  to  decide, 

In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good  or  evil  side  ; 

Some  great  cause,  God's  new  Messiah,  offering  each  the  bloom  or 

blight, 

Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the  sheep  upon  the  right, 
And  the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt  that  darkness  and  that  light. 

Careless  seems  the  great  Avenger  ;  history's  pages  but  record 
One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  'twixt  old  systems  and  the  Word ; 
Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold,  Wrong  forever  on  the  throne,  — 
Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and,  behind  the  dim  unknown, 
Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above  his  own. 


440  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Then  to  side  with  Truth  is  noble  when  we  share  her  wretched  crust, 
Ere  her  cause  bring  fame  and  profit,  and  'tis  prosperous  to  be  just ; 
Then  it  is  the  brave  man  chooses,  while  the  coward  stands  aside, 
Doubting  in  his  abject  spirit,  till  his  Lord  is  crucified, 
And  the  multitude  make  virtue  of  the  faith  they  had  denied. 

For  humanity  sweeps  onward  :  where  to-day  the  martyr  stands, 
On  the  morrow  crouches  Judas  with  the  silver  in  his  hands  ; 
Far  in  front  the  cross  stands  ready,  and  the  crackling  fagots  burn, 
While  the  hooting  mob  of  yesterday  in  silent  awe  return 
To  glean  up  the  scattered  ashes  into  History's  golden  urn. 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties  ;  Time  makes  ancient  good  uncouth  ; 

They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who  would  keep  abreast  with 
Truth  ; 

Lo,  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires  !  we  ourselves  must  Pilgrims  be, 

Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through  the  desperate  win- 
ter sea, 

Nor  attempt  the  Future's  portal  with  the  Past's  blood-rusted  key. 


WILLIAM   WETMORE   STORY. 

William  Wetmore  Story  was  bora  in  Salem,  Mass.,  February  19,  1819,  and  was  graduated 
at  Harvard  College  in  1838,  in  the  class  with  Professor  Lowell.  He  studied  law  under 
the  instruction  of  his  father,  Judge  Story,  and  became  an  able  writejr  upon  legal  subjects. 
He  reported  two  volumes  of  cases  in  the  United  States  Circuit  Court,  and  was  apparently 
on  the  road  to  professional  eminence.  But  he  was  born  with  an  artistic  temperament,  and 
amused  himself  first  by  painting  landscapes,  and  afterwards  by  modelling  in  clay.  He  went 
to  Rome  in  1848,  and  in  the  end  he  became  the  first  living  sculptor  of  ideal  figures.  His 
statues  of  Saul,  Delilah,  and  Cleopatra,  in  particular,  are  considered  as  masterpieces  in  form 
and  in  the  expression  of  character,  thought,  and  emotion.  His  success  in  literature  has  been 
almost  as  remarkable  as  in  art.  A  volume  of  his  Poems  appeared  in  1847,  and  an  enlarged 
edition  in  1856.  Roba  di  Roma,  most  of  which  appeared  first  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  a 
vivid  picture  of  the  modern  city,  was  published  in  1862.  He  published  a  treatise  on  the 
Proportions  of  the  Human  Figure  in  1866;  Graffiti <P  Italia* in  1869;  and  a  poem,  entitled 
The  Roman  Lawyer  in  Jerusalem,  in  1870.  He  published  an  edition  of  the  Life  and  Letters 
of  his  father  in  1851.  He  is  a  contributor  to  Blackwood's  Magazine,  and  the  announcement 
of  a  new  poem  by  him  is  sure  to  attract  the  attention  of  every  cultivated  reader. 

In  1856,  at  the  inauguration  of  the  statue  of  Beethoven  in  the  Boston  Music  Hall,  Mr. 
Story  delivered  a  splendid  prologue,  which  is  included  in  the  volume  before  referred  to. 

The  poem  here  printed,  The  English  Language,  is  a  curious  study  in  the  resources  of  our 
tongue,  and  a  very  successful  imitation  of  a  classic  metre.  It  is  worthy  of  the  student's 
attention.  The  Couplets  are  beautiful  thoughts,  with  an  almost  Shakespearian  directness 
of  expression. 

*  Italian  Pencil  Sketches,  a  series  of  dramatic  poems. 


WILLIAM   WETMORE   STORY.  44! 


THE   ENGLISH   LANGUAGE. 

"And  for  our  long,  that  still  is  so  empayred 
By  travelling  linguists,  —  I  can  prove  it  clear 
That  no  long  has  the  muses'  utterance  heyred 
For  verse,  and  that  sweete  music  to  the  ear 
Strook  out  of  Rhyme  so  naturally  as  this."  —  CHAPMAN. 

GIVE  me,  of  every  language,  first  my  vigorous  English 

Stored  with  imported  wealth,  rich  in  its  natural  mines  — 

Grand  in  its  rhythmical  cadence,  simple  for  household  employment  — 

Worthy  the  poet's  song,  fit  for  the  speech  of  man. 

Not  from  one  metal  alone  the  perfectest  mirror  is  shapen, 
Not  from  one  color  is  built  the  rainbow's  aerial  bridge ; 
Instruments  blending  together  yield  the  divinest  of  music ; 
Out  of  a  myriad  flowers  sweetest  of  honey  is  drawn. 

So  unto  thy  close  strength  is  welded  and  beaten  together, 
Iron  dug  from  the  North,  ductile  gold  from  the  South  ; 
So  unto  thy  broad  stream  the  ice-torrents  born  in  the  mountains 
Rush,  and  the  rivers  pour  brimming  with  sun  from  the  plains. 

Thou  hast  the  sharp  clean  edge  and  the  downright  blow  of  the 

Saxon, 

Thou  the  majestical  march  and  the  stately  pomp  of  the  Latin, 
Thou  the  euphonious  swell,  the  rhythmical  roll  of  the  Greek ; 
Thine  is  the  elegant  suavity  caught  from  sonorous  Italian, 
Thine  the  chivalric  obeisance,  the  courteous  grace  of  the  Norman  — 
Thine  the  Teutonic  German's  inborn  guttural  strength. 

Raftered  by  firm-laid  consonants,  windowed  by  opening  vowels, 

Thou  securely  art  built,  free  to  the  sun  and  the  air  ; 

Over  thy  feudal  battlements  trail  the  wild  tendrils  of  fancy, 

Where  in  the  early  morn  warbled  our  earliest  birds  ; 

Science  looks  out  from  thy  watch-tower,  love  whispers  in  at  thy 

lattice, 
While  o'er  thy  bastions  wit  flashes  its  glittering  sword. 

Not  by  corruption  rotted  nor  slowly  by  ages  degraded, 

Have  the  sharp  consonants  gone  crumbling  away  from  our  words  ; 

Virgin   and  clean   is   their  edge,  like  granite  blocks  chiselled  by 

Egypt  ; 
Just  as  when  Shakespeare  and  Milton  laid  them  in  glorious  verse. 


442  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

Fitted  for  every  use  like  a  great  majestical  river, 
Blending  thy  various  streams,  stately  thou  flowest  along, 
Bearing  the  white-winged  ship  of  Poesy  over  thy  bosom, 
Laden  with  spices  that  come  out  of  the  tropical  isles, 
Fancy's  pleasuring  yacht  with  its  bright  and  fluttering  pennons, 
Logic's  frigates  of  war  and  the  toil-worn  barges  of  trade. 

How  art  thou  freely  obedient  unto  the  poet  or  speaker 
When,  in  a  happy  hour,  thought  into  speech  he  translates  ; 
Caught  on  the  word's  sharp  angles  flash  the  bright  hues  of  his 

fancy  — 
Grandly  the  thought  rides  the  words,  as  a  good  horseman  his  steed. 

Now,  clear,  pure,  hard,  bright,  and  one  by  one,  like  to  hail-stones, 

Short  words  fall  from  his  lips  fast  as  the  first  of  a  shower  — 

Now  in  a  twofold  column,  Spondee,  Iamb,  and  Trochee, 

Unbroke,  firmset,  advance,  retreat,  trampling  along  — 

Now  with  a  sprightlier  springiness  bounding  in  triplicate  syllables, 

Dance  the  elastic  Dactylics  in  musical  cadences  on, 

Now  their  voluminous  coil  intertangling  like  huge  anacondas 

Roll  overwhelmingly  onward  the  sesquipedalian  words. 

Flexile  and  free  in  thy  gait  and  simple  in  all  thy  construction, 
Yielding  to  every  turn  thou  bearest  thy  rider  along  ; 
Now  like  our  hackney  or  draught-horse  serving  our  commonest  uses, 
Now  bearing  grandly  the  Poet  Pegasus-like  to  the  sky. 

Thou  art  not  prisoned  in  fixed  rules,  thou  art  no  slave  to  a  grammar, 
Thou  art  an  eagle  uncaged  scorning  the  perch  and  the  chain ; 
Hadst  thou  been  fettered  and  formalized,  thou  hadst  been  tamer  and 

weaker. 

How  could  the  poor  slave  walk  with  thy  grand  freedom  of  gait  ? 
Let  then  grammarians  rail  and  let  foreigners  sigh  for  thy  signposts, 
Wandering  lost  in  thy  maze,  thy  wilds  of  magnificent  growth. 

Call  thee  incongruous,  wild,  of  rule  and  of  reason  defiant ; 

I  in  thy  wildness  a  grand  freedom  of  character  find. 

So  with  irregular  outline  tower  up  the  sky-piercing  mountains 

Rearing  o'er  yawning  chasms  lofty  precipitous  steeps, 

Spreading  o'er  ledges  unclimbable,  meadows  and  slopes  of  green 

smoothness, 
Bearing  the  flowers  in  their  clefts,  losing  their  peaks  in  the  clouds. 


WILLIAM    WETMORE    STORY.  443 

Therefore  it  is  that  I  praise  thee  and  never  can  cease  from  rejoicing, 
Thinking  that  good  stout  English  is  mine  and  my  ancestors'  tongue  ; 
Give  me  its  varying  music,  the  flow  of  its  free  modulation  — 
I  will  not  covet  the  full  roll  of  the  glorious  Greek,  — 
Luscious  and  feeble  Italian,  Latin  so  formal  and  stately, 
French  with  its  nasal  lisp,  nor  German  inverted  and  harsh  — 
Not  while  our  organ  can  speak  with  its  many  and  "wonderful  voices  — 
Play  on  the  soft  flute  of  love,  blow  the  loud  trumpet  of  war, 
Sing  with  the  high  sesquialtro,  or  drawing  its  full  diapason 
Shake  all  the  air  with  the  grand  storm  of  its  pedals  and  stops. 


[Selections  from  "Couplets."] 

SHAKESPEARE. 

II. 

OUR  nearness  value  lends  to  trivial  things  and  slight, 
But  only  distance  gives  to  lofty  ones  their  height. 

The  Pyramids  to  those  beneath  them  look  not  high, 
But  as  we  go  from  them  they  tower  into  the  sky. 

So  thy  colossal  mind,  in  time's  perspective  seen, 
Still  rises  up  and  up  with  more  majestic  mien. 

in. 

Strive  not  to  say  the  whole  !  the  Poet,  in  his  Art, 
Must  intimate  the  whole,  and  say  the  smallest  part. 

The  young  moon's  silver  arc  her  perfect  circle  tells, 
The  limitless  within  Art's  bounded  outline  dwells. 

Of  every  noble  work  the  silent  part  is  best, 

Of  all  expression,  that  which  cannot  be  expressed. 

Each  act  contains  the  Life,  each  work  of  Art  the  world, 
And  all  the  planet  laws  are  in  each  dew-drop  pearled. 

VI. 

Patient  the  wounded  earth  receives  the  plough's  sharp  share, 
And  hastes  the  sweet  return  of  golden  grain  to  bear. 

The  sea  remembers  not  the  vessel's  rending  keel, 
But  rushes  joyously  the  ravage  to  conceal. 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

So  patient  under  scorn  and  injury  abide  ; 

Who  conquereth  all  within  may  dare  the  world  outside. 

x. 

Live  not  without  a  friend  !     The  Alpine  rock  must  own 
Its  mossy  grace,  or  else  be  nothing  but  a  stone. 

Live  not  without  a  God  !  however  low  or  high, 
In  every  house  should  be  a  window  to  the  sky. 

XII. 

As  rooted  to  the  rock  the  yearning  sea-weed  grows 
And  sways  unto  the  tide,  and  feels  its  ebbs  and  flows  ; 

So  unto  Reason  fixed,  yet  floating  ever  free 

In  Feeling's  ebb  and  flow  the  Artist's  life  should  be. 

XIX. 

That  dress  of  thine  is  made  of  many  lives  ;  I  see 
Upon  thy  coral  there  the  diver's  misery. 

Thy  shawl  is  red  with  blood,  for  that  the  camel  bled  ; 
The  seamstress  sewed  her  pain  into  thy  lace's  thread. 

The  tortured  worm  gave  up  his  tomb  thy  silk  to  make, 
The  oyster  bore  his  pearl  of  trouble  for  thy  sake. 

The  frolic  kid  was  flayed  thy  snowy  hands  to  hide, 
A  thousand  cochineals  to  paint  thy  ribbon  died. 

Thou  wouldst  not  crush  a  worm,  so  gentle  is  thy  heart ; 
'And  yet,  behold  !  how  strange  a  paradox  thou  art. 

XXXII. 

Where  thou  art  strong  and  stout  thy  friend  to  thee  will  show  — 
Where  thou  art  weak  alone  is  taught  thee  by  thy  foe. 

Therefore  despise  him  not ;  but  'neath  his  battle-axe 
See  if  thy  armor  ring  whole,  sound,  or  'neath  it  cracks. 

Though  friend  with  flattery  soothe,  or  foe  stab  through  and  through, 
Praise  cannot  save  the  False,  nor  malice  kill  the  True. 


EDWIN    PERCY    WHIPPLE.  445 


EDWIN   PERCY  WHIPPLE. 

Edwin  Percy  Whipple  was  born  in  Gloucester,  Mass.,  March  8,  1819.  He  was  educated 
in  the  public  schools  of  Salem,  and  on  his  removal  to  Boston  was  employed  in  a  broker's 
office.  Ha  became  a  member  of  the  Mercantile  Library  Association,  and  in  its  debates  and 
other  literary  exercises  he  gained  the  knowledge  and  practice  which  laid  the  foundation  for  his 
scholarship  and  his  fame  as  a  writer.  He  was  superintendent  of  the  News  Room  in  the 
Merchants'  Exchange,  but  in  1860  gave  up  business  to  devote  himself  to  literature.  He 
has  been  a  contributor  to  the  North  American  Review,  the  Christian  Examiner,  the 
Atlantic  Monthly,  and  other  periodicals.  He  delivered  a  course  of  lectures  before  the  Lowell 
Institute,  upon  the  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth,  and  has  be»nfor  some  years  engaged 
in  lecturing,  mostly  on  literary  topics,  before  lyceums  and  at  colkge  anniversaries  through- 
out the  country.  His  orations,  reviews,  and  essays  have  been  published  in  six  volumes, 
i2mo.,  by  Messrs.  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co.,  Boston. 

Mr.  Whipple's  mind  is  acute  and  analytic,  and  his  mode  of  dealing  with  a  subject  shows 
his  mastery  of  principles,  his  sincerity  of  character,  and  his  power  of  lucid  statement.  His 
style  is  not  uniformly  easy,  although  his  vocabulary  is  ample,  and  his  choice  of  words  is  often 
very  felicitous.  At  times  he  inclines  to  be  epigrammatic  and  sparkling,  and  when  this  is 
the  case  he  is  apt  to  restrain  his  naturally  ample  utterance,  and  to  establish  a  formal  balance 
of  terse  phrases  in  short,  pungent  sentences,  in  place  of  the  longer  sweep  of  the  older  and 
more  melodious  style  of  English  prose.  Like  most  writers  who  have  had  their  early  disci- 
pline in  debate,  and  have  maintained  an  oratorical  style  by  long  practice  in  lecturing,  he 
sometimes  swells  his  periods  into  sonorous  measure,  and  writes  at  his  reader,  as  if  in  the 
midst  of  a  brilliant  peroration  before  an  excited  audience.  Our  English  cousins  say  that 
most  of  our  writers  lack  repose.  Probably  this  is  true,  but  not  more  true  of  Mr.  Whipple 
than  of  many  others  of  equal  note.  We  have  young  blood  yet,  and  have  not  quite  settled 
down  into  the  equable  courses  of  mature  years.  The  spectacle  of  a  modem  Englishman 
roused  to  a  state  of  enthusiasm  about  anything  would  be  a  rare  one  indeed. 

Mr.  Whipple  is  one  of  the  few  writers  who  have  made  criticism  a  fine  art  ;  and  the  cul- 
tivated reader  finds  almost  as  much  pleasure  in  his  thoughtful  discussions,  rich  as  they  are 
in  assimilated  wealth,  as  in  the  perusal  of  a  work  of  original  creation. 

[From  Character  and  Characteristic  Men.] 

IT  results  from  this  doctrine  of  the  mind's  growth,  that  success  in 
all  the  departments  of  life,  over  which  intellect  holds  dominion, 
depends,  not  merely  on  an  outside  knowledge  of  the  facts  and  laws 
connected  with  each  department,  but  on  the  assimilation  of  that 
knowledge  into  instinctive  intelligence  and  active  power.  Take  the 
good  farmer,  and  you  will  find  that  ideas  in  him  are  endowed  with 
will,  and  can  work.  Take  the  good  general,  and  you  will  find  that 
the  principles  of  his  profession  are  inwrought  into  the  substance  of 
his  nature,  and  act  with  the  velocity  of  instincts.  Take  the  good 
judge,  and  in  him  jurisprudence  seems  impersonated,  and  his 
opinions  are  authorities.  Take  the  good  merchant,  and  you  will 
find  that  commerce,  in  its  facts  and  laws,  seems  in  him  embodied, 
and  that  his  sagacity  appears  identical  with  the  objects  on  which  it 
is  exercised.  Take  the  great  statesman,  take  Webster,  and  note 
how,  by  thoroughly  individualizing  his  comprehensive  experience,  he 


446  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

seems  to  carry  a  nation  in  his  brain ;  how,  in  all  that  relates  to  the 
matter  in  hand,  he  has  in  him  as  faculty  what  is  out  of  him  vcifact; 
how  between  the  man  and  the  thing  there  occurs  that  subtile  free- 
masonry of  recognition  which  we  call  the  mind's  intuitive  glance  ; 
and  how  conflicting  principles  and  statements,  mixed  and  mingling 
in  fierce  confusion  and  with  deafening  war-cries,  fall  into  order  and 
relation,  and  move  in  the  direction  of  one  inexorable  controlling 
idea,  the  moment  they  are  grasped  by  an  intellect  which  is  in  the 
secret  of  their  combination  :  — 

"  Confusion  hears  his  voice,  and  the  wild  uproar  stills. " 

Mark,  too,  how,  in-  the  productions  of  his  mind,  the  presence  and 
pressure  of  his  whole  nature,  in  each  intellectual  act,  keep  his  opin- 
ions on  the  level  of  his  character,  and  stamp  every  weighty  paragraph 
with  "  Daniel  Webster,  his  mark."  The  characteristic  of  all  his  great 
speeches  is,  that  the  statements,  arguments,  and  images  have  what  we 
should  call  a  positive  being  of  their  own,  — stand  out  as  plainly  to 
the  sight  as  a  ledge  of  rocks  or  chain  of  hills,  —  and,  like  the  works 
of  Nature  herself,  need  no  other  justification  of  their  right  to  exist 
than  the  fact  of  their  existence.  We  may  dislike  their  object,  but 
we  cannot  deny  their  solidity  of  organization.  This  power  of  giving 
a  substantial  body,  an  undeniable  external  shape  and  form,  to  his 
thoughts  and  perceptions,  so  that  the  toiling  mind  does  not  so  much 
seem  to  pass  from  one  sentence  to  another,  unfolding  its  leading 
idea,  as  to  make  each  sentence  a  solid  work  in  a  Torres- Vedras 
line  of  fortifications  —  this  prodigious  constructive  faculty,  wielded 
with  the  strength  of  a  huge  Samson-like  artificer  in  the  material  of 
mind,  and  welding  together  the  substances  it  may  not  be  able  to 
fuse,  puzzled  all  opponents  who  understood  it  not,  and  baffled  the 
efforts  of  all  who  understood  it  well.  He  rarely  took  a  position  on 
any  political  question  which  did  not  draw  down  upon  him  a  whole 
battalion  of  adversaries,  with  ingenious  array  of  argument  and 
indefinite  noise  of  declamation  ;  but  after  the  smoke,  and  dust,  and 
clamor  of  the  combat  were  over,  the  speech  loomed  up  perfect  and 
whole,  a  permanent  thing  in  history  or  literature,  while  the  loud 
thunders  of  opposition  had  too  often  died  away  into  low  mutterings, 
audible  only  to  the  adventurous  antiquary  who  gropes  in  the  "  still 
air"  of  stale  "  Congressional- Debates."  The  rhetoric  of  sentences 
however  melodious,  of  aphorisms  however  pointed,  of  abstractions 
however  true,  cannot  stand  in  the  storm  of  affairs  against  this  true 
rhetoric,  in  which  thought  is  con-substantiated  with  things. 


EDWIN    PERCY   WHIPPLE.  447 

Now,  in  men  of  this  stamp,  who  have  so  organized  knowledge  into 
faculty  that  they  have  attained  the  power  of  giving  Thought  the 
character  of  Fact,  we  notice  no  distinction  between  power  of  intel- 
lect and  power  of  will,  but  an  indissoluble  union  and  fusion  of  force 
and  insight.  Facts  and  laws  are  so  blended  with  their  personal 
being,  that  we  hardly  decide  whether  it  is  thought  that  wills,  or  will 
that  thinks.  Their  actions  display  the  intensest  intelligence  ;  their 
thoughts  come  from  them  clothed  in  the  thews  and  sinews  of  ener- 
getic volition.  Their  force,  being  proportioned  to  their  intelligence, 
never  issues  in  that  wild  anarchical  impulse,  or  that  tough,  obstinate, 
narrow  wilfulness,  which  many  take  to  be  the  characteristic  of  indi- 
vidualized power.  They  may,  in  fact,  exhibit  no  striking  individual 
traits  which  stand  impertinently  prominent,  and  yet  from  this  very 
cause  be  all  the  more  potent  and  influential  individualities.  Indeed, 
in  the  highest  efforts  of  ecstatic  action,  when  the  person  is  mightiest, 
and  amazes  us  by  the  giant  leaps  of  his  intuition,  the  mere  pecu- 
liarities of  his  personality  are  unseen  and  unfelt.  This  is  the  case 
with  Homer,  Shakespeare,  and  Goethe  in  poetry  —  with  Plato 
and  Bacon  in  philosophy  —  with  Newton  in  science  —  with  Caesar 
in  war.  Such  men,  doubtless,  had  peculiarities  and  caprices,  but 
they  were  "  burnt  and  purged  away  "  by  the  fire  of  their  genius, 
when  its  action  was  intensest.  Then  their  whole  natures  were 
melted  down  into  pure  force  and  insight,  and  the  impression  of 
marvellous  force  and  weight  and  reach  of  thought. 

If  it  be  objected,  that  these  high  examples  are  fitted  to  provoke 
despair  rather  than  stimulate  emulation,  the  answer  is,  that  they 
contain,  exemplify,  and  emphasize  the  principles,  and  flash  subtile 
hints  of  the  processes,  of  all  mental  growth  and  production.  How 
comes  it  that  these  men's  thoughts  radiate  from  them  as  acts,  en- 
dowed not  only  with  an  illuminating,  but  a  penetrating  and  animating 
power  ?  The  answer  to  this  is  a  statement  of  the  genesis,  not  mere- 
ly of  genius,  but  of  every  form  of  intellectual  manhood ;  for  such 
thoughts  do  not  leap  a  la  Minerva,  full  grown  from  the  head,  but  are 
struck  off  in  those  moments  when  the  whole  nature  of  the  thinker  is 
alive  and  aglow  with  an  inspiration  kindled  long  before  in  remote 
recesses  of  consciousness  from  one  spark  of  immortal  fire,  and  un- 
weariedly  burning,  burning,  burning,  until  it  lit  up  the  whole  inert 
mass  of  surrounding  mind  in  flame. 

To  show,  indeed,  how  little  there  is  of  the  offhand,  the  haphazard, 
the  hit-or-miss,  in  the  character  of  creative  thought,  and  how  com- 
pletely the  gladdest  inspiration  is  earned,  let  us  glance  at  the 


44$       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

psychological  history  of  one  of  those  imperial  ideas  which  measure 
the  power,  test  the  quality,  and  convey  the  life,  of  the  minds  that 
conceive  them.  The  progress  of  such  an  idea  is  from  film  to  form. 
It  has  its  origin  in  an  atmosphere  of  feeling  ;  for  the  first  vital  move- 
ment of  the  mind  is  emotional,  and  is  expressed  in  a  dim  tendency, 
a  feeble  feeling  after  the  object,  or  the  class  of  objects,  related  to  the 
peculiar  constitution  and  latent  affinities  of  its  individual  being.  This 
tendency  gradually  condenses  and  deepens  into  a  sentiment  per- 
vading the  man  with  a  love,  of  those  objects,  —  by  a  sweet  compul- 
sion ordering  his  energies  in  their  direction,  —  and  by  slow  degrees 
investing  them,  through  a  process  of  imagination,  with  the  attribute 
of  beauty,  and,  through  a  process  of  reason,  investing  the  purpose 
with  which  he  pursues  them  with  the  attribute  of  intelligence.  The 
object  dilates  as  the  mind  assimilates  and  the  nature  moves,  so  that 
every  step  in  this  advance  from  mere  emotion  to  vivid  insight  is  a 
building  up  of  the  faculties  which  each  onward  movement  evokes 
and  exercises  —  sentiment,  imagination,  reason  increasing  their 
power  and  enlarging  their  scope  with  each  impetus  that  speeds  them 
on  to  their  bright  and  beckoning  goal.  Then,  when  the  individual 
has  reached  his  full  mental  stature  and  come  in  direct  contact  with 
the  object,  then,  only  then,  does  he  "pluck  out  the  heart  of  its 
mystery "  in  one  of  those  lightning-like  acts  of  thought  which  we 
call  combination,  invention,  discovery.  There  is  no  luck,  no  ac- 
cident, in  all  this.  Nature  does  not  capriciously  scatter  her  secrets 
as  golden  gifts  to  lazy  pets  and  luxurious  darlings,  but  imposes 
tasks  when  she  presents  opportunities,  and  uplifts  him  whom  she 
would  inform.  The  apple  that  she  drops  at  the  feet  of  Newton  is 
but  a  coy  invitation  to  follow  her  to  the  stars. 


JULIA  WARD   HOWE. 

Julia  Ward  Howe,  daughter  of  Samuel  Ward,  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  May  27, 
1819.  She  received  a  careful  education  from  her  father,  and  gave  evidences  of  literary  talent  at 
an  early  age.  She  was  married  in  1843  to  Dr.  Samuel  G.  Howe,  well  known  as  a  philanthro- 
pist and  superintendent  of  the  Blind  Asylum  in  Boston,  and  accompanied  him  upon  a  tour 
in  Europe.  In  1854  she  published  a  volume  of  poems,  entitled  Passion  Flowers,  and  in 
1856  another  volume,  Words  for  the  Hour.  She  wrote  two  plays  for  the  stage,  one  of  which, 
The  World's  Own,  was  performed  in  Boston.  In  1859  she  published  a  book  of  travel, 
entitled  A  Trip  to  Cuba.  In  1866  appeared  her  Later  Lyrics,  containing  among  other 
things  the  magnificent  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic,  the  music  of  which  was  heard  in  every 
northern  camp  during  the  late  war. 

The  origin  of  this  stirring  melody  is  not  known  with  certainty.    It  is  believed  to  have 


JULIA    WARD    HOWE.  449 

come  from  the  Methodist  camp  meetings.  A  company  of  Boston  militia,  the  old  Light 
Infantry  corps,  while  on  garrison  duty  at  Fort  Warren,  was  in  the  habit  of  singing  a  couple 
of  rudely  improvised  lines  to  the  music,  running  thus :  — 

"John  Brown's  body  lies  a  mouldering  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a  mouldering  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a  mouldering  in  the  grave  ; 
His  soul  is  marching  on." 

The  refrain  was  a  repetition  of  the  words  "Glory,  glory,  hallelujah!"  The  Twelfth 
Massachusetts  Regiment  was  quartered  at  the  fort  for  organization  and  drill,  and,  before 
leaving  for  the  seat  of  war,  the  men  had  learned  the  tune.  When  the  regiment  passed 
through  New  York,  on  the  march  down  Broadway,  the  men  struck  up  the  song  in  unison, 
and  produced  an  effect,  manifested  by  mingled  applause  and  tears,  that  is  rareiy  accorded  to 
music.  From  them  the  melody  was  soon  caught  by  other  troops,  and  the  marching  on  of 
John  Brown's  soul  was  heard  from  the  Potomac  to  the  Mississippi.  It  became  a  sort  of 
contagion,  and  was  heard  everywhere  —  in  patriotic  meetings,  in  parlor  and  in  kitchen,  in 
workshops  and  on  the  street. 

Mrs.  Howe  seized  upon  the  salient  movements  of  the  air,  and  produced  a  hymn  that,  like 
the  Marseillaise ',  is  immortal  in  itself,  and  linked  to  a  not  unworthy  melody.  It  was  as  if  an 
ancient  prophet  had  returned  to  earth  with  a  divine  and  awful  message,  to  kindle  the  blood 
of  the  nation  and  lead  us  on  by  thoughts  of  present  duty  and  future  glory. 

Of  the  other  pieces  in  the  Later  Lyrics,  we  would  mention  Her  Verses,  a  Lyrical  Romance, 
which  contains  many  exquisite  stanzas.  In  1868  she  published  an  account  of  a  trip  to  Athens, 
called  From  the  Oak  to  the  Olive. 

Mrs.  Howe  is  an  earnest  advocate  of  the  movement  for  woman  suffrage,  and  has  written 
much  upon  the  subject  with  power  and  eloquence. 

OUR    ORDERS. 

WEAVE  no  more  silks,  ye  Lyons  looms, 

To  deck  our  girls  for  gay  delights  ! 
The  crimson  flower  of  battle  blooms, 

And  solemn  marches  fill  the  nights. 

Weave  but  the  flag  whose  bars  to-day 

Drooped  heavy  o'er  our  early  dead, 
And  homely  garments  coarse  and  gray, 

For  orphans  that  must  earn  their  bread ! 

Keep  back  your  tunes,  ye  viols  sweet, 
That  poured  delight  from  other  lands ! 

Rouse  there  the  dancer's  restless  feet : 
The  trumpet  leads  our  warrior  bands. 

And  ye  that  wage  the  war  of  words 

With  mystic  fame  and  subtile  power, 
Go,  chatter  to  the  idle  birds, 

Or  teach  the  lesson  of  the  hour  ! 
29 


45O  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Ye  Sibyl  Arts,  in  one  stern  knot 
Be  all  your  offices  combined  ! 

Stand  close,  while  Courage  draws  the  lot, 
The  destiny  of  human  kind. 

And  if  that  destiny  could  fail, 

The  sun  should  darken  in  the  sky, 

The  eternal  bloom  of  Nature  pale, 

And  God,  and  Truth,  and  Freedom  die ! 


BATTLE  HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

MINE  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord  : 

He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath  are 

stored ; 

He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible  swift  sword ; 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling  camps  ; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and  damps  ; 
I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring  lamps. 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have»read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel : 
"  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace  shall  deal ; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat ; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judgment  seat : 
O,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him  !  be  jubilant,  my  feet ! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me : 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While  God  is  marching  on. 


THOMAS    WILLIAM    PARSONS.  451 


THOMAS   WILLIAM   PARSONS. 

Thomas  William  Parsons  was  born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  August  18,  1819,  and  was  educated 
at  the  Latin  School.  He  visited  Italy  in  1836,  and  devoted  himself  to  Italian  literature, 
especially  to  the  works  of  Dante,  and  has  become  one  of  the  most  eminent  living  scholars  in 
that  field.  He  published  in  Boston,  in  1843,  a  translation  of  the  first  ten  cantos  of  the 
Inferno,  in  which  not  only  the  spirit  of  the  original  but  the  difficult  terzci  rima  are  preserved. 
In  1854  he  published  a  volume  of  his  poems,  which  are  compact  in  form,  carefully  finished, 
and  genuinely  beautiful.  His  Lines  on  a  Bust  of  Dante  in  their  severe  simplicity  would 
have  won  the  approval  of  the  great  Florentine  himself.  A  complete  translation  of  thf 
Inferno  appeared  in  1867.  He  is  at  present  residing  in  London. 

ON  A  BUST  OF  DANTE. 

SEE,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 

Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 

The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song. 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 

Perpetual  care  and  scorn,  abide  ; 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng; 

Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

No  dream  his  life  was  —  but  a  fight ; 
Could  any  Beatrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite  ? 
To  that  cold  Ghibeline's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  Beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  lips  as  Cumae's  cavern  close, 

The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 

But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 

Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 

Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 
When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed, 

With  no  companion  save  his  book, 
To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade ; 


45 2  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 
His  palm  upon  the  pilgrim's  guest, 

The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 
The  convent's  charity  was  rest. 

Peace  dwells  not  here  —  this  rugged  face 

Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose  ; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 

The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth  ; 
Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 

Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth ; 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth  ; 

Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime  ; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 

Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

O  Time !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 

The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou  ; 
That  poor,  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 

Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now ; 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow ; 

His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 


A  SONG  FOR  SEPTEMBER. 

SEPTEMBER  strews  the  woodland  o'er 

With  many  a  brilliant  color  ; 
The  world  is  brighter  than  before  — 

Why  should  our  hearts  be  duller  ? 
Sorrow  and  the  scarlet  leaf, 

Sad  thoughts  and  sunny  weather, 
Ah,  me  !  this  glory  and  this  grief 

Agree  not  well  together. 


JOSIAH    GILBERT    HOLLAND.  4$  3 

This  is  the  parting  season  —  this 

The  time  when  friends  are  flying  ; 
And  lovers  now,  with  many  a  kiss, 

Their  long  farewells  are  sighing. 
Why  is  the  earth  so  gayly  drest  ? 

This  pomp  that  autumn  beareth 
A  funeral  seems,  where  every  guest 

A  bridal  garment  weareth. 

Each  one  of  us,  perchance,  may  here, 

On  some  blue  morn  hereafter, 
Return  to  view  the  gaudy  year, 

But  not  with  boyish  laughter  : 
We  shall  then  be  wrinkled  men, 

Our  brows  with  silver  laden, 
And  thou  this  glen  mayst  seek  again, 

But  nevermore  a  maiden  ! 


Nature  perhaps  foresees  that  Spring 

Will  touch  her  teeming  bosom, 
And  that  a  few  brief  months  will  bring 

The  bird,  the  bee,  the  blossom ; 
Ah,  these  forests  do  not  know  — 

Or  would  less  brightly  wither  — 
The  virgin  that  adorns  them  so 

Will  nevermore  come  hither ! 


JOSIAH   GILBERT   HOLLAND. 

Josiah  Gilbert  Holland  was  born  in  Belchertown,  Mass.,  July  24,  1819.  He  studied 
medicine,  and  practised  for  a  few  years.  He  was  superintendent  of  public  schools  in  Vicks- 
burg,  Miss.,  for  a  year.  In  1849  he  became  associate  editor  of  the  Springfield  (Mass.)  Re- 
publican, and  wrote  for  its  columns  several  of  his  popular  works.  In  1870  he  became  editor 
of  Scribner's  Monthly,  in  New  York. 

His  works  are  a  History  of  Western  Massachusetts  ( 1855)  ;  The  Bay  Path  (1857) ;  Timothy 
Titcomb's  Letters  to  the  Young  (1858) ;  Bitter  Sweet,  a  dramatic  poem  (1858) ;  Gold  Foil, 
Hammered  from  Popular  Proverbs  (1859) ;  Miss  Gilbert's  Career  (1860) :  Lessons  in  Life 
(1861)  ;  Letters  to  the  Jones?s  (1863);  Plain  Talk  on  Familiar  Subjects  (1865) ;  Life  of 
Abraham  Lincoln  (1866) ;  Katrina,  Her  Life  and  Mine,  a  narrative  poem  (1867). 

His  novels  are  his  best  works,  artistically  considered.  The  Bay  Path  is  a  story  of  the 
first  settlement  of  Connecticut  valley,  and  the  characters  and  events  are  mainly  historical. 
The  author  makes  no  attempt  to  reproduce  the  ancient  forms  of  speech,  but  he  understands 


454  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

well  and  has  faithfully  represented  the  ideas  and  manners  of  the  time.  Miss  Gilbert's  Career 
has  many  good  points.  It  is  a  novel  of  modern  times,  and  is  as  new,  and  near,  and  devoid 
of  romantic  associations,  as  a  pine-shingled  house  in  the  factory  village  it  depicts.  But  its 
principal  figures  are  exhibited  with  a  certain  stereoscopic  fidelity,  and  the  characteristic 
virtues  and  meannesses  of  a  Yankee  neighborhood  are  naturally  developed  in  the  course  of 
its  events.  The  volumes  of  proverbial  advice  are  doubtless  useful  works,  and  have  been 
widely  circulated  ;  but  their  wisdom  is  of  an  obvious  kind,  and  the  author,  in  his  endeavors 
to  put  himself  on  a  level  with  his  readers,  sometimes  forgets  the  style  of  a  man  of  letters  as 
well  as  the  dignity  of  a  teacher  of  morals.  The  two  poems,  Bitter  Sweet  and  Katrina,  have 
had  a  great  popularity.  On  the  title  page  of  one  of  them  we  saw  the  imprint,  "  Thirty-sixth 
Thousand."  Few  American  works  have  been  so  rewarded.  They  are  interesting  as  stories, 
with  some  bright  sketches  of  rural  life,  and  some  touches  of  poetic  feeling.  They  have 
their  counterparts  in  style  and  mode  of  treatment  in  the  works  of  popular  English  authors, 
and  are  specially  commended  by  their  admirers  for  their  religious  tone  and  their  earnestly 
expressed  lessons. 

[From  Miss  Gilbert's  Career.] 

AN   EXHIBITION   OF   AN   INFANT   SCHOOL. 

DR.  GILBERT  came  forward,  and,  rapping  upon  the  stage  three 
times  with  his  cane,  called  the  assembly  to  order.  They  had  gathered, 
he  said,  to  witness  one  of  the  distinguishing  characteristics  and 
proudest  triumphs  of  modern  civilization.  It  had  been  supposed 
that  the  time  of  children  less  than  five  years  old  must  necessarily  be 
wasted  in  play,  —  that  the  golden  moments  of  infancy  must  be  for- 
ever lost.  That  time  was  past.  As  the  result  of  modern  progress, 
it  had  appeared  that  even  the  youngest  minds  were  capable  of 
receiving  ideas,  and  that  education  may  actually  be  begun  at  the 
maternal  breast,  pursued  in  the  cradle,  and  forwarded  in  the  nursery 
to  a  point  beyond  the  power  of  imagination  at  present  to  conceive. 
It  was  in  these  first  years  of  life  that  there  had  been  a  great  waste  of 
time.  He  saw  children  before  him,  in  the  audience,  older  than  any 
upon  the  stage,  who  had  no  knowledge  of  arithmetic  and  geography, 
—  children,  the  most  of  whom  had  never  heard  the  word  astronomy 
pronounced.  While  these  precious  little  ones  had  been  improving 
their  time,  there  were  those  before  him  whom  he  had  seen  engaged 
in  fishing,  others  in  playing  at  ball,  and  others  still,  little  girls,  doing 
nothing,  but  amusing  themselves  with  their  dolls  !  He  had  but  a 
word  to  add.  There  were  others  who  would  address  them  before 
the  close  of  the  exercises.  He  offered  the  exhibition  as  a  demonstra- 
tion of  the  feasibleness  of  infant  instruction.  He  trusted  he  offered 
it  in  a  humble  spirit,  but  he  felt  that  he  was  justified  in  pointing  to 
it  as  an  effectual  condemnation  of  those  parents  who  had  denied  to 
their  infants  the  privilege  of  attending  the  school.  .  .  . 

It  was  now  Miss  Gilbert's  office  to  engage  the  audience ;  and  her 
little  troop  of  infantry  was  put  through  its  evolutions  and  exercises, 


JOSIAH   GILBERT    HOLLAND.  455 

to  the  astonishment  and  delight  of  all  beholders.  They  sang  songs  ; 
they  repeated  long  passages  of  poetry  in  concert ;  they  went  through 
the  multiplication  table  to  the  tune  of  Yankee  Doodle  ;  they  an- 
swered with  the  shrill,  sing-song  voice  of  parrots  all  sorts  of  questions 
in  geography  ;  they  recited  passages  of  Scripture  ;  they  gave  an 
account  of  the  creation  of  the  world  and  of  the  American  revolution  ; 
they  told  the  story  of  the  birth  of  Christ,  and  spelled  words  of  six 
syllables  ;  they  added,  they  multiplied,  they  subtracted,  they  di- 
vided ;  they  told  what  hemisphere,  what  continent,  what  country, 
what  state,  what  county,  what  town,  they  lived  in  ;  they  repeated  the 
names  of  the  presidents  of  the  United  States  and  the  governors  of 
the  commonwealth  ;  they  acted  a  little  drama  of  Moses  in  the 
Bulrushes  ;  and  they  did  many  other  things,  till,  all  through  the 
audience,  astonishment  grew  into  delight,  and  delight  grew  into 
rapture.  .  .  . 

The  musicians,  who  had  been  kept  pretty  closely  at  work  accom- 
panying the  children  in  their  songs,  moved  back  their  chairs  at  a 
hint  from  Miss  Gilbert,  and  took  a  position  behind  the  pulpit.  There 
was  a  general  moving  of  benches  and  making  ready  for  the  closing 
scene  and  the  crowning  glory  of  the  exhibition  —  a  representation 
of  the  solar  system  on  green  baize,  by  bodies  that  revolved  on 
two  legs.  .  .  . 

"  The  sun  will  take  his  place,"  said  Miss  Gilbert ;  and  immediately 
the  red-headed  boy  who  bore  the  banner  of  "  The  Crampton  Light 
Infantry  "  stepped  to  the  centre  of  the  planetarium,  with  a  huge  ball 
in  his  hand,  mounted  upon  the  end  of  a  tall  stick.  Taking  his  stand 
upon  the  chalk  sun,  and  elevating  the  sphere  above  a  head  that 
would  have  answered  the  purpose  of  a  sun  quite  as  well,  he  set  it 
twirling  on  its  axis  ;  and  thus  came  the  centre  of  the  system  into 
location  and  into  office. 

"  Mercury  !  "  said  Miss  Gilbert ;  and  out  came  a  smart  little  chap 
with  a  smaller  ball  in  his  hand,  and  began  walking  obediently  around 
the  chalk  circle  next  the  sun. 

"  Venus  !  "  and  sweet  little  Venus  rose  out  of  the  waves  of  muslin 
tossing  on  the  side  of  the  stage,  and  took  the  next  circle. 

"  Earth  and  her  satellite  !  "  called  forth  a  boy  and  a  girl,  the  latter 
playing  moon  to  the  boy's  earth,  revolving  around  him  as  he  re- 
volved around  the  sun,  and  with  great  astronomical  propriety,  making 
faces  at  him. 

Mars  was  called  for ;  and  it '  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  red 
planet  was  very  pale  and  very  weary  looking. 


456  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

"  Jupiter  and  his  satellites  ! "  and  the  boy  Jupiter  walked  upon 
the  charming  circle  with  a  charming  circle  of  little  girls  revolving 
around  him. 

So  Saturn  with  its  seven  moons,  and  Georgium  Sidus,  otherwise 
Herschel,  otherwise  Uranus,  with  its  six  attendant  orbs,  took  their 
places  on  the  verge  of  the  system,  and  slowly,  very  slowly,  moved 
around  the  common  centre.  But  there  was  one  orbit  still  unfilled, 
and  that  was  a  very  eccentric  one.  It  was  not  all  described  upon 
the  green  baize  carpet,  but  left  it,  and  retired  behind  the  pulpit, 
and  was  lost. 

The  system  was  in  motion,  and,  watching  every  revolving  body  in 
it,  stood  the  system's  queen,  indicating  by  her  finger  that  Uranus 
should  go  slower,  »or  Mercury  faster,  and  striving  to  keep  ordei 
among  the  subjects  of  her  realm.  The  music  grew  dreamy  and  soft, 
in  an  attempt  to  suggest  what  is  called  "  the  music  of  the  spheres," 
if  any  reader  knows  what  that  is.  Heavenly  little  bodies  indeed 
they  were,  and  it  is  not  wonderful  that  many  eyes  moistened  with 
sensibility  as  they  mingled  so  gracefully  and  so  harmoniously  upon 
the  plane  of  vision.  Still  the  eccentric  orbit  was  without  an  oc- 
cupant,  and  no  name  was  called.  At  last  a  pair  of  large  dark  eyes  ap- 
peared from  behind  the  pulpit,  and  behind  the  eyes  a  head  of  golden 
hair,  and  behind  the  head  a  wreath  of  floating  golden  curls.  This 
was  the  unbidden  comet,  advancing  slowly  towards  the  sun,  almost 
creeping  at  first,  then  gradually  increasing  his  velocity,  intent  on 
coming  in  collision  with  no  other  orb,  smiling  not,  seeing  nothing 
of  the  audience  before  him,  and  yet  absorbing  the  attention  of  every 
eye  in  the  house.  The  doctor's  eyes  beam  with  unwonted  interest. 
Miss  Gilbert  forgets  Mars  and  Venus,  and  looks  only  at  the  comet. 
At  last  the  comet  darts  around  its  perihelion,  and  the  golden  curls 
are  turned  to  the  audience  in  full  retreat  towards  the  unknown  region 
of  space  behind  the  pulpit  from  whence  it  had  proceeded. 

The  house  rang  with  cheers,  and  the  doctor  was  prouder  than 
before  ;  for  this  was  his  little  son  Fred,  the  bearer  of  the  banner 
with  the  long  inscription,  Miss  Gilbert's  darling  brother,  and  the 
brightest  ornament  of  the  Crampton  Light  Infantry. 

Miss  Gilbert  clapped  her  hands  three  times,  and  her  system  dis- 
solved—  returned  to  its  original  elements — and  stepping  forward 
to  her  father,  she  announced  that  her  exhibition  was  closed. 

Dr.  Bloomer  said  that  he  did  not  feel  authorized  to  speak  for 
others,  but  he  felt  that  he  had  learned  much  from  the  exhibition.  He 
felt  that  he  should  go  away  from  it  a  wiser  man,  with  new  apprehen- 


JOSIAH    GILBERT    HOLLAND.  457 

sions  of  the  powers  of  the  human  soul,  and  the  preciousness  of  time. 
The  hour  was  coming,  he  doubted  not,  in  the  progress  of  the  race, 
when  knowledge  would  be  so  simplified,  and  the  modes  of  imparting 
it  would  become  so  well  adapted  to  the  young  mind,  that  the  child 
of  five  would  begin  his  process  of  education  where  the  fathers  left 
off  theirs.  These  little  ones  had  already  taught  him  many  things, 
and  God  would  perfect  his  own  praise  out  of  the  mouths  of  babes 
and  sucklings.  .  .  . 

The  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter  rose  to  make  only  "a  few  little  remarks," 
as  he  modestly  characterized  them.  .  .  .  These  children,  he 
said,  were  undertaking  the  battle  of  life  early.  They  had  enlisted 
under  a  captain  who  had  already  led  them  to  a  victory  prouder  than 
any  ever  achieved  by  a  Cassar  or  a  Napoleon  —  an  American  Joan  of 
Arc,  whose  career  of  usefulness,  if  she  should  keep  her  sword 
bright,  and  her  escutcheon  untarnished,  would  far  surpass  in  glory 
that  of  the  world-renowned  heroine  whose  name  he  had  mentioned. 
Heaven  forbid  that  he  should  flatter  any  one.  He  despised  a 
flatterer  ;  but  he  felt  that  he  was  honoring  Caesar,  and  Napoleon,  and 
Joan  of  Arc  in  their  graves  by  mentioning  their  names  in  connection 
with  such  achievements  as  he  had  witnessed  on  that  occasion.  .  .  . 
Standing  back,  as  if  to  wait  for  the  subsidence  of  the  applause,  his 
mind  retired  behind  his  glasses,  and  thrust  out  its  antenna  in  every 
direction  to  feel  for  his  theme,  but  he  could  not  find  it. 

In  his  desperation  he  turned,  at  last,  to  the  children,  and  said  in 
his  blandest  tones,  "  Little  children,  can  you  tell  me  who  Caesar,  and 
Napoleon,  and  Joan  of  Arc  were  ?  " 

"  Caesar  is  the  name  of  my  dog,"  responded  the  little  golden- 
haired  comet. 

"  Napoleon  is  the  name  of  my  dog,"  cried  Mars. 

There  was  an  awful  pause  —  a  suppressed  titter — when  precious 
little  Venus,  in  a  shrill  voice,  with  an  exceedingly  knowing  look  in 
her  face,  said  that  "Joan  of  Arc  was  the  name  of  the  dog  that  Noah 
saved  from  the  flood." 

What  wonder  that  Crampton  roared  with  laughter  ?     .     .     . 

But  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter  was  up.  The  sole  question  with  him  was 
how  to  sit  down.  What  should  he  say  ?  He  waited  until  the  laughter 
had  subsided,  and  then  he  told  the  children  they  had  not  got  to  that 
yet,  but  their  excellent  teacher  would  doubtless  tell  them  all  about  it 
the  next  term. 


458  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


HERMAN   MELVILLE. 

Herman  Melville  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York  August  i,  1819.  His  boyhood  was 
spent  in  the  neighborhood  of  Albany,  and  in  Berkshire  County,  Mass.  He  gave  early 
evidence  of  talent  for  composition.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  shipped  before  the  mast  as  a 
common  sailor,  visited  London,  and  returned  in  the  same  way.  In  1841  he  embarked  on  a 
whaling  vessel  bound  to  the  Pacific.  Being  weary  of  the  service,  he  deserted,  in  company 
with  a  fellow-sailor,  in  1842,  at  Nukuheva,  one  of  the  Marquesas  Islands.  Unexpectedly 
he  found  himself  among  a  race  of  cannibals,  but  was  hospitably  treated,  though  kept  in 
custody,  for  four  months,  when  he  escaped  on  a  French  vessel,  and  landed  at  Tahiti  on  the 
day  when  the  French  took  possession  of  the  Society  Islands.  From  thence  he  went  to 
Honolulu,  in  the  Sandwich  Islands,  and  returned  to  Boston  in  1844.  He  wrote  an  account 
of  his  singular  experiences,  and  the  work  entitled  Typee,  was  published  in  1846,  simultane- 
ously in  London  and  New  York.  Typee  closes  with  the  account  of  his' escape  from  Nuku- 
heva. A  second  work,  Omoo,  published  in  1847,  takes  up  the  narrative  at  that  point. 
These  are  among  the  most  delightful  books  of  travel  in  the  language.  The  style  is  charm- 
ingly easy,  the  descriptions  are  novel  and  picturesque,  and  the  incidents  are,  if  not  abso- 
lutely true,  related  with  an  air  of  verisimilitude  that  gives  the  reader  perfect  confidence. 

Mr.  Melville  afterwards  published  Mardi,  and  a  Voyage  Thither  (1849).  ^n  tne  same 
year  appeared  Redburn,  the  Reminiscences  of  a  Gentleman's  Son  in  the  Merchant  Service. 
In  1850  he  removed  to  Pittsfield,  Mass.  His  residence  is  now  (1872)  in  New  York  city, 
where  he  holds  the  office  of  inspector  in  the  Custom  House.  White  Jacket,  or  the  World 
in  a  Man-of-War,  was  published  in  1850,  and  is- considered  one  of  the  most  admirable 
ot  the  author's  works.  In  1851  he  published  Moby  Dick,  the  White  Whale,  an  imaginative 
story,  and  not  altogether  probable.  Later  works  are,  Pierre,  or  the  Ambiguities  (1852) ; 
The  Piazza  Tales,  containing  some  powerfully  drawn  pictures  (1856)  ;  The  Confidence  Man 
(1857) ;  Battle  Pieces  and  Aspects  of  the  War  (1866). 

[From  Typee.] 
CLIMBING  A   COCOA-NUT  TREE. 

THIS  invaluable  fruit,  brought  to  perfection  by  the  rich  soil  of  the 
Marquesas,  and  borne  aloft  on  a  stately  column  more  than  a  hun- 
dred feet  from  the  ground,  would  seem  at  first  almost  inaccessible  to 
the  simple  natives.  Indeed,  the  slender,  smooth,  and  soaring  shaft, 
without  a  single  limb  or  protuberance  of  any  kind  to  assist  one  in 
mounting  it,  presents  an  obstacle  only  to  be  overcome  by  the  sur- 
prising agility  and  ingenuity  of  the  islanders.  It  might  be  supposed 
that  their  indolence  would  lead  them  patiently  to  await  the  period 
when  the  ripened  nuts,  slowly  parting  from  their  stems,  fall  one  by 
one  to  the  ground.  This  certainly  would  be  the  case,  were  it  not 
that  the  young  fruit,  encased  in  a  soft  green  husk,  with  the  incipient 
meat  adhering  in  a  jelly-like  pellicle  to  its  sides,  and  containing  a 
bumper  of  the  most  delicious  nectar,  is  what  they  chiefly  prize. 


HERMAN    MELVILLE.  459 

They  have  at  least  twenty  different  terms  to  express  as  many 
progressive  stages  in  the  growth  of  the  nut.  Many  of  them  reject 
the  fruit  altogether  except  at  a  particular  period  of  its  growth,  which, 
incredible  as  it  may  appear,  they  seemed  to  me  to  be  able  to  ascer- 
tain within  an  hour  or  two.  Others  are  still  more  capricious  in  their 
tastes  ;  and  after  gathering  together  a  heap  of  the  nuts  of  all  ages, 
and  ingeniously  tapping  them,  will  first  sip  from  one  and  then  from 
another,  as  fastidiously  as  some  delicate  wine-bibber  experimenting, 
glass  in  hand,  among.his  dusty  demijohns  of  different  vintages. 

Some  of  the  young  men,  with  more  flexible  frames  than  their 
comrades,  and  perhaps  with  more  courageous  souls,  had  a  way  of 
walking  up  the  trunk  of  the  cocoa-nut  trees  which  to  me  seemed 
little  less  than  miraculous  :  and  when  looking  at  them  in  the  act,  I 
experienced  that  curious  perplexity  a  child  feels  when  he  beholds  a 
fly  moving  feet  uppermost  along  a  ceiling. 

I  will  endeavor  to  describe  the  way  in  which  Narnee,  a  noble 
young  chief,  sometimes  performed  this  feat  for  my  particular  gratifi- 
cation ;  but  his  preliminary  performances  must  also  be  recorded. 
Upon  my  signifying  my  desire  that  he  should  pluck  me  the  young 
fruit  of  some  particular  tree,  the  handsome  savage,  throwing  himself 
into  a  sudden  attitude  of  surprise,  feigns  astonishment  at  the  ap- 
parent absurdity  of  the  request.  Maintaining  this  position  for  a 
moment,  the  strange  emotions  depicted  on  his  countenance  soften 
down  into  one  of  humorous  resignation  to  my  will,  and  then,  looking 
wistfully  up  to  the  tufted  top  of  the  tree,  he  stands  on  tiptoe,  strain- 
ing his  neck  and  elevating  his  arm,  as  though  endeavoring  to  reach 
the  fruit  from  the  ground  where  he  stands.  As  if  defeated  in  this 
childish  attempt,  he  now  sinks  to  the  earth  despondingly,  beating 
his  breast  in  well-acted  despair  ;  and  then,  starting  to  his  feet  all  at 
once,  and  throwing  back  his  head,  raises  both  hands,  like  a  school- 
boy about  to  catch  a  falling  ball.  After  continuing  this  for  a  moment 
or  two,  as  if  in  expectation  that  the  fruit  was  going  to  be  tossed 
down  to  him  by  some  good  spirit  in  the  tree-top,  he  turns  wildly 
round  in  another  fit  of  despair,  and  scampers  off  to  the  distance  of 
thirty  or  forty  yards.  Here  he  remains  a  while,  eying  the  tree,  the 
very  picture  of  misery  ;  but  the  next  moment,  receiving,  as  it  were, 
a  flash  of  inspiration,  he  rushes  again  towards  it,  and  clasping  both 
arms  about  the  trunk,  with  one  elevate'd  a  little  above  the  other,  he 
presses  the  soles  of  his  feet  close  together  against  the  tree,  extend- 
ing his  legs  from  it  until  they  are  nearly  horizontal,  and  his  body 
becomes  doubled  into  an  arch  ;  then,  hand  over  hand,  and  foot  after 


460       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

foot,  he  rises  from  the  earth  with  steady  rapidity,  and  almost  before 
you  are  aware  of  it,  has  gained  the  cradled  and  embowered  nest  of 
nuts,  and  with  boisterous  glee  flings  the  fruit  to  the  ground. 

This  mode  of  walking  the  tree  is  only  practicable  where  the  trunk 
declines  considerably  irom  the  perpendicular.  This,  however,  is 
almost  always  the  case  ;  some  of  the  perfectly  straight  shafts  of  the 
trees  leaning  at  an  angle  of  thirty  degrees. 

The  less  active  among  the  men,  and  many  of  the  children  of  the 
valley,  have  another  method  of  climbing.  They  take  a  broad  and 
stout  piece  of  bark,  and  secure  either  end  of  it  to  their  ankles  ;  so 
that  when  the  feet  thus  confined  are  extended  apart,  a  space  of  little 
more  than  twelve  inches  is  left  between  them.  This  contrivance 
greatly  facilitates  the  act  of  climbing.  The  band  pressed  against  the 
tree,  and  closely  embracing  it,  yields  a  pretty  firm  support ;  while 
with  the  arms  clasped  about  the  trunk,  and  at  regular  intervals  sus- 
taining the  body,  the  feet  are  drawn  up  nearly  a  yard  at  a  time,  and 
a  corresponding  elevation  of  the  hands  immediately  succeeds.  In 
this  way  I  have  seen  little  children,  scarcely  five  years  of  age,  fear- 
lessly climbing  the  slender  pole  of  a  young  cocoa-nut  tree,  and  while 
hanging  perhaps  fifty  feet  from  the  ground,  receiving  the  plaudits  of 
their  parents  beneath,  who  clapped  their  hands,  and  encouraged 
them  to  mount  still  higher. 

What,  thought  I,  on  first  witnessing  one  of  these  exhibitions, 
would  the  nervous  mothers  of  America  and  England  say  to  a  similar 
display  of  hardihood  in  any  of  their  children  ?  The  Lacedaemonian 
nation  might  have  approved  of  it,  but  most  modern  dames  would 
have  gone  into  hysterics  at  the  sight. 

At  the  top  of  the  cocoa-nut  tree  the  numerous  branches,  radiating 
on  all  sides  from  a  common  centre,  form  a  sort  of  green  and  waving 
basket,  between  the  leaflets  of  which  you  just  discern  the  nuts 
thickly  clustering  together,  and  on  the  loftier  trees  looking  no  bigger 
from'  the  ground  than  bunches  of  grapes.  I  remember  one  adventur- 
ous little  fellow  —  Too-Too  was  the  rascal's  name  —  who  had  built 
himself  a  sort  of  aerial  baby-house  in  the  picturesque  tuft  of  a  tree 
adjoining  Marheyo's  habitation.  He  used  to  spend  hours  there  — 
rustling  among  the  branches,  and  shouting  with  delight  every  time 
the  strong  gusts  of  wind,  rushing  down  from  the  mountain-side, 
swayed  to  and  fro  the  tall  and  flexible  column  on  which  he  was 
perched. 


WALT   WHITMAN.  461 


WALT   WHITMAN. 

Walt  Whitman  was  born  at  West  Hills,  Long  Island,  May  31,  1819.  The  family  lived  in 
a  story-and-a-half  farm-house,  heavily  timbered,  and  still  standing,  which  overlooked  the  sea. 
They  were  a  race  of  workers,  to  whom  books  were  little  known.  While  the  author  was  still  a 
child,  his  parents  moved  to  Brooklyn,  where  he  attended  school.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he 
learned  to  set  type,  and  a  few  years  later  he  taught  in  a  country  school.  Before  he  was 
twenty  he  wrote  a  sketch  for  the  Democratic  Review.  In  1849  he  travelled  through  the 
western  states,  and  while  absent  from  home  edited  a  paper  in  New  Orleans  for  a  year. 
Returning,  he  followed  his  trade  for  a  time,  and  afterwards  went  into  business  as  a  carpenter 
and  builder,  which  had  been  his  father's  occupation.  Upon  removing  to  New  York  he 
frequented  the  society  of  newspaper  reporters  somewhat,  but  found  most  to  enjoy  or  to 
observe  in  people  of  the  lower  walks  of  life.  He  read  much,  especially  in  the  Bible,  which 
he  esteems  as  the  grandest  collection  of  literature.  He  published  a  volume,  entitled  Leaves 
of  Grass,  in  1856,  by  which  he  has  been  widely  known,  and  on  account  of  which  he  has  been 
generally  reprobated.  The  work  contains  pictures  of  marked  originality  and  unquestionable 
power,  as  well  as  passages  of  a  very  exceptionable  character,  for  which  no  defence  that  is 
valid  in  this  day  can  be  set  up.  During  the  late  war  he  was  almost  constantly  employed 
in  hospitals  and  camps  in  the  relief  of  sick  and  wounded  soldiers.  These  scenes  finally 
took  form  in  his  mind,  and  were  published  in  a  thin  volume,  entitled  Drum  Taps.  Two 
selections  from  this  work,  both  of  a  pathetic  sort  (and  they  could  not  be  otherwise  !)  are 
here  presented.  Pupils  who  are  accustomed  to  associate  the  idea  of  poetry  with  regular 
classic  measure  in  rhyme,  or  in  ten-syllabled  blank  verse,  or  elastic  hexameters,  will  com- 
mence these  short  and  simple  prose  sentences  with  surprise,  and  will  wonder  how  any  num- 
ber of  them  can  form  a  poem.  But  let  them  read  aloud,  with  minds  in  sympathy  with  the 
picture  as  it  is  displayed,  and  they  will  find  by  nature's  unmistakable  responses  that  the 
author  is  a  poet,  and  possesses  the  poet's  incommunicable  power  to  touch  the  heart.  This 
power  is  the  inheritance  into  which  the  poet  is  born,  and,  as  Webster  said  of  eloquence, 
labor  and  learning  will  toil  for  it  in  vain. 

What  success  our  author  would  have  had  in  moulding  his  poetic  conceptions  into  recog- 
nized poetic  measure  we  cannot  say.  His  poems  read  as  literal  translations  from  Homer  or 
Dante  would.  The  undying  spirit  is  in  every  homely  line  ;  but  \\\o.fonn,  which  is  its  incarna- 
tion, and  as  inseparable  from  it  as  body  from  soul,  is  not  wrought  into  symmetry.  By  some 
eternal  law  the  expression  of  deep  emotion,  or  of  the  images  of  beauty,  not  only  takes  on  a 
nobler  form  of  words  than  belongs  to  every-day  affairs,  but  falls  naturally  into  a  rhythmical 
movement.  Had  Whitman  read  the  Psalms  of  his  favorite  David  in  the  Hebrew,  or  the 
Iliad  in  its  original  measure,  he  might  not  have  thought  our  prose  versions  to  be  models 
either  for  the  adequate  expression  or  for  the  appropriate  form  of  his  ideas.  As  it  is,  we  must 
think  his  lines  are  diamonds  in  the  rough  — virgin  gold  in  unwrought  nuggets.  With 
many  estimates  of  his  genius  made  by  his  admirers  we  cannot  agree.  The  grandeur  that 
comes  from  mere  geographical  vastness  is  not  necessarily  poetical ;  it  does  not  imply  poetic 
power  to  use  such  phrases  as  "  from  the  Alleghanies  to  the  Rocky  Mountains."  Much  of 
his  glorification  of  America  comes  under  that  head.  But  after  making  all  deductions,  the 
fact  remains  that  he  has  set  down  some  of  the  most  striking  thoughts  and  sketched  some  of 
the  most  vivid  scenes  to  be  found  in  modern  literature,  and  that  he  is  less  indebted  to 
others  for  his  ideas  and  for  his  power  of  illustration  than  almost  any  American  writer. 

Whitman  was  once  removed  from  his  place  as  a  department  clerk  in  Washington,  on 
account  of  the  immoralities  in  his  first  book.     Let  us  hope  that  the  cabinet  officer  who 
vindicated  the  Christianity  of  his  department  was  himself  an  exemplar  of  the  virtues,  and  that  ^ 
he  neither  used  his  official  influence  to  enhance  his  private  fortune,  nor  strove  to  maintain 
his  power  by  "ways  that  are  dark." 


462  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


COME   UP  FROM   THE    FIELDS,   FATHER. 
I. 

COME  up  from  the  fields,  father  —  here's  a  letter  from  our  Pete  ; 
And  come  to  the  front  door,  mother  —  here's  a  letter  from  thy  dear 
son. 

IL 

Lo,  'tis  autumn ; 

Lo,  where  the  trees,  deeper  green,  yellower,  and, redder, 
Cool  and  sweeten  Ohio's  villages,  with  leaves  fluttering  in  the 

moderate  wind, 
Where  apples  ripe  in  the  orchards  hang,  and  grapes  on  the  trellised 

vines  ; 

(Smell  you  the  smell  of  the  grapes  on  the  vines  ? 
Smell  you  the  buckwheat,  where  the  bees  were  lately  buzzing  ?) 

in. 

Above  all,  lo,  in  the  sky,  so  calm,  so  transparent  after  the  rain,  and 

with  wondrous  clouds  ; 
Below,  too,  all  calm,  all  vital  and  beautiful  —  and  the  farm  prospers 

well. 

IV. 

Down  in  the  fields  all  prospers  well ; 

But  now  from  the  fields  come,  father  —  come  at  the  daughter's  call ; 
And  come  to  the  entry,  mother —  to  the  front  door -come,  right  away. 

v. 

Fast  as   she  can   she    hurries  —  something  ominous  —  her  steps 

trembling ; 
She  does  not  tarry  to  smooth  her  white  hair,  nor  adjust  her  cap. 

VI. 

Open  the  envelope  quickly  ; 

O,  this  is  not  our  son's  writing,  yet  his  name  is  signed ; 
O,  a  strange  hand  writes  for  our  dear  son  —  O  stricken  mother^  soul ! 
All  swims  before  her  eyes  —  flashes  with  black  —  she  catches  the 

main  words  only ; 
Sentences  broken  — gun-shot  wound  in  the  breast,  cavalry  skirmish, 

taken  to  hospital, 
At  present  low,  but  will  soon  be  better. 


WALT    WHITMAN.  463 

VII. 

Ah,  now  the  single  figure  to  me, 

Amid  all  teeming  and  wealthy  Ohio,  with  all  its  cities  and  farms, 
Sickly  white  in  the  face,  and  dull  in  the  head,  very  faint, 
By  the  jamb  of  a  door  leans. 

VIII. 

Grieve  not  so,  dear  mother  (the  just-grown  daughter  speaks  through 

her  sobs  ; 

The  little  sisters  huddle  around,  speechless  and  dismayed  ;) 
See,  dearest  mother,  the  letter  says,  Pete  will  soon  be  better. 

IX. 
Alas,  poor  boy,  he  will  never  be  better,  (nor  may  be  needs  to  be 

better,  that  brave  and  simple  soul ;) 

While  they  stand  at  home  at  the  door,  he  is  dead  already  j 
The  only  son  is  dead. 

x. 

But  the  mother  needs  to  be  better  ; 
She,  with  thin  form;  presently  drest  in  black  ; 
By  day  her  meals  untouched  —  then  at  night  fitfully  sleeping,  often 

waking, 

In  the  midnight  waking,  weeping,  longing  with  one  deep  longing, 
O  that  she  might  withdraw  unnoticed  —  silent  from  life,  escape  and 

withdraw, 
To  follow,  to  seek,  to  be  with  her  dear,  dead  son. 


DIRGE  FOR  TWO  VETERANS. 


THE  last  sunbeam 

Lightly  falls  from  the  finished  Sabbath, 
On  the  pavement  here  —  and  there  beyond  it  is  looking 

Down  a  new-made  double  grave. 

II. 

Lo  !  the  moon  ascending ! 
Up  from  the  east,  the  silvery  round  moon  ; 
Beautiful  over  the  house-tops,  ghastly,  phantom  moon ; 

Immense  and  silent  moon. 


464       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

III. 

I  see  a  sad  procession, 

And  I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  full-keyed  bugles  ; 
All  the  channels  of  the  city  streets  they  're  flooding, 

As  with  voices  and  with  tears. 

IV. 

I  hear  the  great  drums  pounding, 
And  the  small  drums  steady  whirring  ; 
And  every  blow  of  the  great  convulsive  drums 

Strikes  me  through  and  through. 

v. 

For  the  son  is  brought  with  the  father  ; 
(In  the  foremost  ranks  of  the  fierce  assault  they  fell ; 
Two  veterans,  son  and  father,  dropped  together, 

And  the  double  grave  awaits  them.) 

VI. 

Now,  nearer  blow  the  bugles, 
And  the  drums  strike  more  convulsive, 
And  the  daylight  o'er  the  pavement  quite  has  faded, 

And  the  strong  dead-march  enwraps  me. 

VII. 

In  the  eastern  sky  up-buoying, 
The  sorrowful  vast  phantom  moves  illumined ; 
('Tis  some  mother's  large,  transparent  face, 

In  heaven  brighter  growing.) 

VIII. 

O  strong  dead-march,  you  please  me  ! 
O,  moon  immense,  with  your  silvery  face  you  soothe  me ! 
O  my  soldiers  twain  !     O  my  veterans,  passing  to  burial ! 

What  I  have  I  also  give  you. 

IX. 

The  moon  gives  you  light, 
And  the  bugles  and  drums  give  you  music ; 
And  my  heart,  O  my  soldiers,  my  veterans, 

My  heart  gives  you  love. 


ALICE    GARY.  465 


ALICE   GARY. 

Alice  Gary  was  born  at  Mount  Healthy,  near  Cincinnati,  O.,  in  April,  1820.  She  had 
but  slight  opportunities  for  education.  A  series  of  sketches,  published  in  the  National  Era, 
first  drew  public  attention  to  her  as  a  writer.  In  1850  she  published  a  volume  of  poems 
written  by  herself  and  her  sister  Phcebe.  A  volume  of  her  prose  sketches,  entitled  Clover- 
nook,  appeared  in  1851,  a  second  series  in  1853,  and  a  third  in  1854.  She  published  a  poem, 
entitled  Hualco,  in  1851  ;  Lyra  and  Other  Poems  in  1853;  a  new  collection  of  Poems  in 
1855;  Ballads,  Lyrics,  and  Hymns  in  1866;  A  Lover's  Diary  in  1867.  She  has  written 
several  novels  ;  Hagar,  a  Story  of 'io-day  (1853)  ;  Hollywood  (1855) ;  Married,  not  Mated 
(1856);  and  The  Bishop's  Son  (1867);  also  Pictures  of  Country  Life  (1859);  and  Snow- 
berries  (1867). 

Miss  Gary  removed  from  her  western  home  to  New  York  in  1850,  and  resided  there  until 
her  death,  which  occurred  February  12,  1871. 

There  can  be  no  question  that  Alice  Gary  had  what  our  clerical  friends  call  a  "vocation  " 
to  poetry.  She  had  the  clear  vision,  the  instant  sense  of  comparison,  and  the  perception  of 
analogies  not  discerned  by  common  eyes.  Her  memory  treasured  all  the  picturesque  asso- 
ciations of  her  childhood,  and  we  find  them  in  profusion  in  her  poems.  Her  art  is  not  so 
conspicuous  as  her  poetic  insight.  Many  of  her  most  striking  images  are  rather  crudely 
wroughtj  and  to  read  her  lines  smoothly  requires  such  a  variety  of  accents  that  the  sensitive 
i-:ir  is  constantly  threatened  with  a  shock.  Some  stanzas  are  padded  to  proper  dimensions  . 
by  phrases  that  we  are  accustomed  to  hear  from  young  ladies  with  limited  vocabularies,  and 
which  give  us  a  sudden  descent  to  the  regions  of  the  commonplace.  But  her  poetic  feeling 
is  genuine  ;  her  cheerful  temper  kept  her  from  morbid  sentimentalism,  the  bane  of  modern 
poetry  ;  she  attempted  no  flights  beyond  her  powers,  and  never  sought  to  set  out  the  plan 
of  the  universe  in  the  cant  words  of  metaphysics.  For  these  solid  excellences  many  faults 
of  construction  are  forgiven.  Her  poems  can  be  read  with  hearty  enjoyment,  and  ought  to 
be  remembered  and  esteemed  as  among  the  best  utterances  of  American  women. 

THE   PICTURE-BOOK. 

THE  black  walnut-logs  in  the  chimney 
Made  ruddy  the  house  with  their  light, 

And  the  pool  in  the  hollow  was  covered 
With  ice  like  a  lid,  —  it' was  night  j 

And  Roslyn  and  I  were  together,  — 

I  know  now  the  pleased  look  he  wore, 
And  the  shapes  of  the  shadows  that  checkered 

The  hard  yellow  planks  of  the  floor  ; 

And  how,  when  the  wind  stirred  the  candle, 

Affrighted  they  ran  from  its  gleams, 
And  crept  up  the  wall  to  the  ceiling 

Of  cedar,  and  hid  by  the  beams. 

There  were  books  on  the  mantel-shelf,  dusty, 
And  shut,  and  I  see  in  my  mind 
30 


466  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

The  pink-colored  primer  of  pictures 
We  stood  on  our  tiptoes  to  find. 

We  opened  the  leaves  where  a  camel 
Was  seen  on  a  sand-covered  track, 

A-snuffing  for  water,  and  bearing 
A  great  bag  of  gold  on  his  back  ; 

And  talked  of  the  free  flowing  river 
A  tithe  of  his  burden  would  buy, 

And  said,  when  the  lips  of  the  sunshine 
Had  sucked  his  last  water-skin  dry, 

With  thick  breath,  and  mouth  gaping  open, 
And  red  eyes  a-strain  in  his  head, 

His  bones  would  push  out  as  if  buzzards 
Had  picked  him  before  he  was  dead ! 

Then  turned  the  leaf  over,  and  finding 
A  palace  that  banners  made  gay, 

Forgot  the  bright  splendor  of  roses 

That  shone  through  our  windows  in  May ; 

And  sighed  for  the  great  beds  of  princes, 
While  pillows  for  him  and  for  me 

Lay  soft  among  ripples  of  ruffles 
As  sweet  and  as  white  as  could  be  ; 

And  sighed  for  their  valleys,  forgetting 
How  warmly  the  morning  sun  kissed 

Our  hills,  as  they  shrugged  their  green  shoulders 
Above  the  white  sheets  of  the  mist. 

Their  carpets  of  dyed  wool  were  softer, 
We  said,  than  the  planks  of  our  floor, 

Forgetting  the  flowers  that  in  summer 
Spread  out  their  gold  mats  at  our  door. 

The  storm  spit  its  wrath  in  the  chimney, 

And  blew  the  cold  ashes  aside, 
And  only  one  poor  little  fagot 

Hung  out  its  red  tongue  as  it  died, 


ALICE    GARY.  467 


When  Roslyn  and  I  through  the  darkness 
Crept  off  to  our  shivering  beds, 

A  thousand  vague  fancies  and  wishes 
Still  wildly  astir  in  our  heads  :  — 

Not  guessing  that  we,  too,  were  straying 
In  thought  on  a  sand-covered  track, 

Like  the  camel  a-dying  for  water, 
And  bearing  the  gold  on  his  back. 


IF   AND   IF. 

IF  I  were  a  painter,  I  could  paint 
The  dwarfed  and  straggling  wood, 

And  the  hill-side  where  the  meeting-house 
With  the  wooden  belfry  stood, 

A  dozen  steps  from  the  door,  —  alone, 

On  four  square  pillars  of  rough  gray  stone. 

We  school-boys  used  to  write  our  names 

With  our  finger-tips  each  day 
In  the  dust  o'  th'  cross-beams,  —  once  it  shone, 

I  have  heard  the  old  folks  say, 
(Praising  the  time  past,  as  old  folks  will,) 
Like  a  pillar  of  fire  on  the  side  of  the  hill. 


I  could  paint  the  blacksmith's  dingy  shop,  — 

Its  sign,  a  pillar  of  smoke  ; 
The  farm-horse  halt,  the  rough-haired  colt, 

And  the  jade  with  her  neck  in  a  yoke  ; 
The  pony  that  made  to  himself  a  law, 
And  wouldn't  go  under  the  saddle,  nor  draw  ! 

The  poor  old  mare  at  the  door-post, 
With  joints  as  stiff  as  its  pegs, — 

Her  one  white  eye,  and  her  neck  awry,  — 
Trembling  the  flies  from  her  legs, 

And  the  thriftless  farmer  that  used  to  stand 

And  curry  her  ribs  with  a  kindly  hand. 


468  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

I  could  paint  his  quaint  old-fashioned  house, 
With  its  windows,  square  and  small, 

And  the  seams  of  clay  running  every  way 
Between  the  stones  o'  the  wall ; 

The  roof,  with  furrows  of  mossy  green, 

And  new  bright  shingles  set  between. 

The  oven,  bulging  big  behind, 

And  the  narrow  porch  before, 
And  the  weather-cock  for  ornament 

On  the  pole  beside  the  door  ; 
And  the  row  of  milk-pans,  shining  bright 
As  silver,  in  the  summer  light. 

And  I  could  paint  his  girls  and  boys, 

Each  and  every  one, 
Hepzibah  sweet,  with  her  little  bare  feet, 

And  Shubal,  the  stalwart  son, 
And  wife  and  mother,  with  home-spun  gown, 
And  roses  beginning  to  shade  into  brown. 

I  could  paint  the  garden,  with  its  paths 
Cut  smooth,  and  running  straight, — 

The  gray  sage  bed,  the  poppies  red, 
And  the  lady-grass  at  the  gate,  — 

The  black  warped  slab,  with  its  hive  of 'bees, 

In  the  corner,  under  the  apple  trees. 

**  I  could  paint  the  fields,  in  the  middle  hush 

Of  winter,  bleak  and  bare, 
Some  snow  like  a  lamb  that  is  caught  in  a  bush, 

Hanging  here  and  there,  — 
The  mildewed  haystacks,  all  a-lop, 
And  the  old  dead  stub  with  the  crow  at  the  top. 

The  hill-side,  and  the  small  space  set 

With  broken  palings  round,  — 
The  long  loose  grass,  and  the  little  grave 

With  the  headstone  on  the  ground, 
And  the  willow,  like  the  spirit  of  grace 
Bending  tenderly  over  the  place. 


ALICE    GARY.  469 

The  miller's  face,  half  smile,  half  frown, 

Were  a  picture  I  could  paint, 
And  the  mill,  with  gable  steep  and  brown, 

And  dripping  wheel  aslant,  — 
The  weather-beaten  door,  set  wide, 
And  the  heaps  of  meal-bags  either  side. 

The  timbers  cracked  to  gaping  seams, 

The  swallows'  clay-built  nests, 
And  the  rows  of  doves  that  sit  on  the  beams 

With  plump  and  glossy  breasts,  —  . 
The  bear  by  his  post  sitting  upright  to  eat, 
With  half  of  his  clumsy  legs  in  his  feet. 

I  could  paint  the  mill-stream  cut  in  two 

By  the  heat  o'  the  summer  skies, 
And  the  sand-bar,  with  its  long  brown  back, 

And  round  and  bubbly  eyes, 
And  the  bridge,  that  hung  so  high  o'er  the  tide, 
Creaking  and  swinging  from  side  to  side. 


The  road,  where,  slow  and  wearily, 

The  dusty  teamster  came, 
The  sign  on  its  post  and  the  round-faced  host, 

And  the  high-arched  door,  aflame 
With  trumpet-flowers,  — the  well-sweep,  high, 
And  the  flowing  water-trough,  close  by. 

If  I  were  a  painter,  and  if  my  hand 

Were  cunning,  as  it  is  not, 
I  could  paint  you  a  picture  that  would  stand 

When  all  the  rest  were  forgot : 
But  why  should  I  tell  you  what  it  would  be  ? 
I  never  shall  paint  it,  nor  you  ever  see. 


47O  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


EDWARD   EVERETT   HALE. 

Edward  Everett  Hale  was  born  in  Boston,  April  3,  1822,  and  was  graduated  at  Harvard 
College  in  1839.  He  studied  theology,  and  in  1846  was  settled  as  pastor  of  a  Unitarian 
church  in  Worcester,  Mass.  He  removed  to  Boston  in  1856,  and  became  pastor  of  the 
South  Congregational  Church,  a  position  which  he  still  retains.  He  inherited  literary  tal- 
ent from  both  parents,  and,  as  his  father  was  a  leading  editor  in  Boston,  he  had  ample 
incentives  to  practise  the  art  of  composition.  He  has  shown  in  various  \vays  that  he  pos- 
sesses abilities  of  the  highest  order.  His  sermons  often  exhibit  a  happy  combination  of 
originality  and  learning.  In  literary  criticism  he  is  always  skilful  and  entertaining,  if  not 
always  just.  His  speeches  on  public  occasions  are  uniformly  brilliant,  fruitful  in  wise  sug- 
gestions, glowing  in  style,  and  full  of  witty  and  happy  illustrations.  In  the  various  progres- 
sive movements  of  the  day  he  is  a  recognized  leader.  Philanthropists,  educators,  and  social 
reformers  all  count  on  his  powerful  aid.  His  fertile  mind  drops  hints  —  as  the  elms  scatter 
their  profuse  seeds — forpublic  welfare,  forprivate  comfort,  for  municipal  action,  and  for  social 
cooperation  ;  and  if  all  took  root  there  would  be  a  plenty  of  nurslings  for  experimental 
crops.  His  activity  is  little  less  than  marvellous,  but,  great  as  it  is,  it  is  entirely  inadequate 
to  the  tasks  he  imposes  upon  himself.  Besides  his  regular  clerical  duties,  he  is  editor  of  a 
magazine  (Old  and  New),  a  contributor  to  other  periodicals,  a  lyceum  lecturer,  an  overseer 
of  Harvard  College,  and  a  laborer  in  many  other  societies. 

The  published  works  of  Mr.  Hale  are  as  follows:  The  Rosary  (1848) ;  Margaret  Perci- 
val  in  America  (1850)  ;  Sketches  of  Christian  History  (1850)  ;  Letters  on  Irish  Emigration 
(1852) ;  Kansas  and  Nebraska  (1854)  ;  The  Man  Without  a  Country  (1865)  ;  If,  Yes,  and 
Perhaps  (1868)  ;  The  Ingham  Papsrs  (1869)  ;  Ten  Times  One  is  Ten  (1870)  ;  Sybaris, 
and  Other  Homes  (1867).  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston. 

It  will  be  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  his  graver  works  are  characterized  by  clearness  of 
method  apd  reasoning  power.  His  tales,  sketches,  and  lighter  essays  seem  to  have  been 
thrown  off  without  much  thought,  and  have  neither  the  refined  graces  of  style  nor  the  artistic 
treatment  which  even  the  thinnest  of  literary  trifles  require.  The  Man  Without  a  Country 
is  a  story  of  considerable  power,  especially  in  its  unaffected  truthful  tone.  And  it  is  just  to 
add  that  every  one  of  his  stories,  no  matter  how  disappointing  its  management  may  be,  has 
a  leading  idea,  and  gives  the  reader  some  practical  and  beneficent  suggestion  to  meditate 
upon.  All  things  are  not  possible  for  one  man.  But,  looking  at  the  matter  from  our  point 
of  view,  we  can  but  hope  that  the  splendid  powers  of  this  writer  may  be  concentrated  upon 
some  work  that  shall  show,  more  fully  than  any  he  has  yet  written,  the  rare  foresight,  the 
exuberant  fancy,  the  wealth  of  learning,  and  the  unfailing  spirit  that  are  really  his. 

[From  If,  Yes,  and  Perhaps.] 
WHAT  MIGHT   HAVE   HAPPENED   IF   DAVID   AND   HOMER   HAD    MET. 

A  SUMMER  bivouac  had  collected  together  a  little  troup  of  sol- 
diers from  Joppa,  under  the  shelter  of  a  grove,  where  they  had 
spread  their  sheep-skins,  tethered  their  horses,  and  pitched  a  single 
tent.  With  the  carelessness  of  soldiers,  they  were  chatting  away 
the  time  till  sleep  might  come,  and  help  them  to-morrow  with  its 
chances  —  perhaps  of  fight,  perhaps  of  another  day  of  this  camp 
indolence.  Below  the  garden  slope  where  they  were  lounging,  the 
rapid  torrent  of  Kishon  ran  brawling  along.  A  full  moon  was 


EDWARD    EVERETT    HALE. 

rising  above  the  rough  edge  of  the  eastern  hills,  and  the  whole 
scene  was  alive  with  the  loveliness  of  an  Eastern  landscape. 

As  they  talked  together,  the  strains  of  a  harp  came  borne  down 
the  stream  by  the  wind,  mingling  with  the  rippling  of  the 
brook.  .  .  . 

Soothed  by  the  sound,  and  by  the  moonlight,  and  by  the  sum- 
mer breeze,  they  were  just  in  mood  to  welcome  the  first  interrup- 
tion which  broke  the  quiet  of  the  night.  It  was  the  approach  of 
one  of  their  company,  who  had  been  detached  to  Accho  a  day  or 
two  before,  and  who  came  hurrying  in  to  announce  the  speedy 
arrival  of  companions,  for  whom  he  bespoke  a  welcome.  Just  as 
they  were  to  leave  Accho,  he  said,  that  day,  on  their  return  to 
camp,  an  Ionian  trading-vessel  had  entered  port.  He  and  his  fel- 
low-soldiers had  waited  to  help  her  moor,  and  had  been  chatting 
with  her  seamen.  They  had  told  them  of  the  chance  of  battle  to 
which  they  were  returning ;  and  two  or  three  of  the  younger 
lonians,  enchanted  at  the  relief  from  the  sea's  imprisonment,  had 
begged  them  to  let  them  volunteer  in  company  with  them.  These 
men  had  come  up  into  the  country  with  the  soldiers,  therefore  ; 
and  he  who  had  broken  the  silence  of  the  listeners  to  the  distant 
serenade  had  hurried  on  to  tell  his  comrades  that  such  visitors 
were  on  their  way. 

They  soon  appeared  on  foot,  but  hardly  burdened  by  the  light 
packs  they  bore. 

A  soldier's  welcome  soon  made  the  Ionian  sailors  as  much  at 
home  with  the  men  of  the  bivouac,  as  they  had  been  through  the 
day  with  the  detachment  from  the  seaboard.  A  few  minutes  were 
enough  to  draw  out  sheep-skins  for  them  to  lie  upon,  a  skin  of 
wine  for  their  thirst,  a  bunch  of  raisins  and  some  oat-cakes  for  their 
hunger.  A  few  minutes  more  had  told  the  news  which  each  party 
asked  from  the  other,  and  then  these  sons  of  the  sea  and  these 
war-bronzed  Philistines  were  as  much  at  ease  with  each  other  as  if 
they  had  served  under  the  same  sky  for  years.  .  .  . 

Homer  smiled;  for  it  was  Homer  whom  he  spoke  to — Homer 
still  in  the  freshness  of  his  unblinded  youth.  He  took  the  harp 
which  the  young  Philistine  handed  to  him,  thrummed  upon  its 
chords,  and,  as  he  tuned  them,  said,  "  I  have  no  harp  of  olive-wood  ; 
we  cut  this  out  —  it  was  years  ago  — from  an  old  oleander  in  the 
marshes  near  Colophon.  What  will  you  hear,  gentlemen  ?  " 

"  The  poet  chooses  for  himself,"  said  the  courtly  old  captain. 

"  Let  me  sing  you,  then,  of  the  Olive  Harp;  "  and  he  struck  the 


4/2  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

chords  a  gentle,  quieting  harmony,  which  attuned  itself  to  his  own 
spirit,  pleased  as  he  was  to  find  music,  and  harmony,  and  the 
olive  of  peace  in  the  midst  of  the  rough  bivouac,  where  he  had  come 
up  to  look  for  war.  .  .  . 

He  struck  another  prelude,  and  began.  Then  was  it  that  Homer 
composed  his  Hymn  to  Mars.  In  wild  measure,  and  impetuous, 
he  swept  along  through  the  list  of  Mars'  titles  and  attributes  ;  then 
his  key  changed,  and  his  hearers  listened  more  intently,  more  sol- 
emnly, as  m  a  graver  strain,  with  slower  music,  and  an  almost  awed 
dignity  ol  voice-  Lie  bard  went  on  :  — 

"Helper  of  mortals,  hear  ! 

As  thy  fires  give 
The  present  boldnesses  that  strive 

In  youth  for  honor  ; 

So  would  I  likewise  wish  to  have  the  power 
To  keep  off  from  my  head  thy  bitter  hour, 
And  quench  the  false  fire  of  my  soul's  low  kind, 
By  the  fit  ruling  of  my  highest  mind  1 

Con.trol  that  sting  of  wealth 
That  stirs  me  on  still  to  the  horrid  scath 

Of  hideous  battle  ! 

"  J)o  thou,  O,  ever  blessed  !  give  me  still 
Presence  of  mind  to  put  in  act  my  will, 

Whate'er  the  occasion  be  ; 
And  sc  to  live,  unforced  by  any  fear, 
Beneath  those  laws  of  peace,  that  never  are 
Affected  with  pollutions  popular 

Of  uiiiust  injury, 

As  to  bear  snfe  Jhe  burden  of  hard  fates, 
Of  foes  inflexive,  aid  inhuman  hates  !  " 

The  tones  died  away ;  the  company  was  hushed  for  a  moments 
and  the  old  chief  then  said  gravely  tc  his  petulant  follower,  "  Thai1" 
is  what  men  fight  for,  boy."  But  the  boy  did  not  need  the  counsel- 
Homer's  manner,  his  voice,  the  musk  itself,  the  spirit  of  the  song, 
as  much  as  the  words,  had  overcome  him,  and  the  boasting  soldiel 
was  covering  his  tears  with  his  hands.  .  .  . 

With  the  ease  cf  genius  he  changed  the  *ore  of  his  melody  again, 
and  sang  his  own  hymn,  To  Earth,  the  Mnther  of  All. 

The  triumphant  strain  is  one  which  harmonies  with  c^very  ?enti' 
ment;  and  he  commanded  instantly  the  rapt  attention  of  the  circle* 
So  engrossed  was  he  that  he  did  not  seem  to  observe,  as  he  sang> 
an  addition  to  their  company  of  some  soldiers  from  above  in  the  valr 
ley,  just  as  he  entered  on  the  passage,  — 


EDWARD    EVERETT    HALE.  473 

"Happy,  then,  are  they 
Whom  thou,  O,  great  in  reverence, 
Art  bent  to  honor.     They  shall  all  things  find 
In  all  abundance  !     All  their  pastures  yield 
Herds  in  all  plenty.     All  their  roofs  are  filled 

With  rich  possessions. 
High  happiness  and  wealth  attend  them, 
While,  with  laws  well-ordered,  they 
Cities  of  happy  households  sway  ; 
And  their  sons  exult  in  the  pleasure  of  youth, 
And  their  daughters  dance  with  the  flower-decked  girls, 
Who  play  among  the  flowers  of  summer  ! 
Such  are  the  honors  thy  full  hands  divide  ; 
Mother  of  Gods  and  starry  Heaven's  bride  1 " 

A  buzz  of  pleasure  and  a  smile  ran  round  the  circle,  in  which  the 
new-comers  joined.  They  were  the  soldiers  who  had  been  to  hear 
and  join  the  music  at  the  Carmel-men's  post.  The  tones  of  Homer's 
harp  had  tempted  them  to  return  ;  and  they  had  brought  with  them 
the  Hebrew  minstrel,  to  whom  they  had  been  listening.  It  was  the 
outlaw  David,  of  Bethlehem  Ephrata. 

David  had  listened  to  Homer  more  intently  than  any  one  ;  and 
as  the  pleased  applause  subsided,  the  eyes  of  the  circle  gathered 
upon  him,  and  the  manner  of  all  showed  that  they  expected  him,  in 
minstrel  fashion,  to  take  up  the  same  strain. 

He  accepted  the  implied  invitation,  played  a  short  prelude,  and 
taking  Homer's  suggestion  of  topic,  sang  in  parallel  with  it,  — 

"  I  will  sing  a  new  song  unto  thee,  O  God  ! 
Upon  psaltery  and  harp  will  I  sing  praise  to  thee. 
Thou  art  he  that  giveth  salvation  to  kings, 
That  delivereth  David,  thy  servant,  from  the  sword. 
Rid  me  and  save  me  from  those  who  speak  vanity, 
Whose  right  hand  is  alright  hand  of  falsehood,  — 
That  our  sons  may  be  as  plants  in  fresh  youth  ; 
That  our  daughters  may  be  as  corner-stones  — 
The  polished  stones  of  our  palaces  ; 
That  our  garners  may  be  full  with  all  manner  of  store, 
That  our  sheep  may  bring  forth  thousands  and  ten  thousands  in  the  way ; 
That  there  may  be  no  cry  nor  complaint  in  our  streets. 
Happy  is  the  people  that  is  in  such  a  case, 
Yea,  happy  is  the  people  whose  God  is  the  Lord  !  " 

The  melody  was  triumphant,  and  the  enthusiastic  manner  yet  more 
so.  The  Philistines  listened  delighted  —  too  careless  of  religion, 
they,  indeed,  not  to  be  catholic  in  presence  of  religious  enthusiasm, 
and  Homer  wore  the  exalted  expression  which  his  face  seldom  wore. 
For  the  first  time  since  his  childhood,  Homer  felt  that  he  was  not 
alone  in  the  world  !  .  .  . 


474       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Homer  had  told  him  of  the  storm  at  sea  they  met  a  few  days  be- 
fore, and  David,  I  think,  had  spoken  of  a  mountain  tornado,  as  he 
met  it  years  before.  In  the  excitement  of  his  narrative  he  struck 
the  harp,  which  was  still  in  his  hand,  and  sung  :  — 

"Then  the  earth  shook  and  trembled, 
The  foundations  of  the  hiils  moved  and  were  shaken, 

Because  He  was  wroth ; 
Then  went  up  a  smoke  out  of  his  nostrils, 
And  fire  out  of  his  mouth  devoured; 
It  burned  with  living  coal ; 
He  bowed  the  heavens  also,  and  came  down, 
And  darkness  was  under  his  feet ; 
He  rode  upon  a  cherub,  and  did  fly, 
Yea,  he  did  fly  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind. 
He  made  darkness  his  resting-place, 
His  pavilion  were  dark  waters  and  clouds  of  the  skies ; 
At  the  brightness  before  him  the  clouds  passed  by, 

Hail-stones  and  coals  of  fire. 
The  Lord  also  thundered  in  the  heavens, 
And  the  highest  gave  his  voice  ; 

Hail-stones  and  coals  of  fire, 
Yea,  he  sent  out  his  arrows,  and  scattered  them, 
And  he  shot  out  his  lightnings,  and  discomfited  them. 
Then  the  channels  of  waters  were  seen, 
And  the  foundations  of  the  world  were  made  known, 

At  thy  rebuke,  O  Lord  ! 
At  the  blast  of  the  breath  of  thy  nostrils, 
He  sent  from  above,  he  took  me, 
He  drew  me  out  of  many  waters." 

"  Mine  were  but  a  few  verses,"  said  Homer.  "f  I  am  more  than 
repaid  by  yours.  Imagine  Neptune,  our  sea-god,  looking  on  a  bat- 
tle,- 

"  There  he  sat  high,  retired  from  the  seas  ; 
There  looked  with  pity  on  his  Grecians  beaten  ; 
There  burned  with  rage  at  the  god-king  who  slew  them. 
Then  he  rushed  forward  from  the  rugged  mountains, 

Quickly  descending ; 

•     He  bent  the  forests  also  as  he  came  down, 
And  the  high  cliffs  shook  under  his  feet. 

Three  times  he  trod  upon  them, 
And  with  his  fourth  step  reached  the  home  he  sought  for. 

"There  was  his  palace,  in  the  deep  waters  of  the  seas, 
Shining  with  gold,  and  builded  forever. 
There  he  yoked  him  his  swift-footed  horses  ; 
Their  hoofs  are  brazen  and  their  manes  are  golden. 
He  binds  them  with  golden  thongs. 
He  seizes  his  golden  goad, 
He  mounts  upon  his  chariot,  and  doth  fly ; 


EDWARD    EVERETT    HALE.  475 

Yes,  he  drives  them  forth  into  the  waves  ! 

And  the  whales  rise  under  him  from  the  depths, 

For  they  know  he  is  their  king  ; 

And  the  glad  sea  is  divided  into  parts, 

That  his  steeds  may  fly  along  quickly  ; 

And  his  brazen  axle  passes  dry  between  the  waves, 

So,  bounding  fast,  they  bring  him  to  his  Grecians." 

And  the  poets  sank  again  into  talk.     .     .     . 

"  He  paints  the  picture.     David  sings  the  life  of  the  picture." 

"  Yes  :   Homer  sees  what  he  sings  ;  David  feels  his  song." 

"  Homer's  is  perfect  in  its  description." 

"  Yes  ;  but  for  life,  for  the  soul  of  the  description,  you  need  the 
Hebrew."  .  .  . 

And  so  it  was  that  Homer,  apropos  of  I  do  not  know  what,  sang 
in  a  sad  tone,  — 

"  Like  leaves  on  trees  the  race  of  man  is  found, 
Now  green  in  youth,  now  withering  on  the  ground ; 
Another  race  the  following  spring  supplies ; 
They  fall  successive,  and  successive  rise. 
So  generations  in  their  course  decay, 
So  flourish  these,  when  those  have  passed  away. " 

David  waited  for  a  change  in  the  strain ;  but  Homer  stopped. 
The  young  Hebrew  asked  him  to  go  on  ;  but  Homer  said  that  the 
passage  which  followed  was  mere  narrative,  from  a  long  narrative 
poem.  David  looked  surprised  that  his  new  friend  had  not  pointed 
out  a  moral  as  he  sang,  and  said,  simply,  "  We  sing  that  thus  :  — 

'  As  for  man,  his  days  are  as  grass  ; 
As  a  flower  of  tha  field,  so  he  flourisheth ; 
For  ths  wind  passeth  over  it,  and  it  is  gone, 
And  the  place  thereof  shall  know  it  no  more. 

But  the  marcy  of  the  Lord 
Is  from  everlasting  to  everlasting, 
Of  them  that  fear  him  ; 
And  his  righteousness 
Unto  children's  children, 
To  such  as  keep  his  covenant, 
As  remember  his  commandments  to  do  them.'  " 


4/6  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS'. 


THOMAS    BUCHANAN   READ. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read  was  bom  in  Chester  County,  Penn.,  March  12,  1822.  At  the 
age  of  seventeen  he  went  to  Cincinnati,  and  entered  a  sculptor's  studio,  but  soon  after 
devoted  himself  to  painting.  He  resided  successively  in  New  York,  Boston,  and  Philadel- 
phia, and  in  1850  visited  Europe.  He  returned  to  Cincinnati  in  1858,  and  afterwards  spent 
some  time  in  Boston  and  Cambridge.  He  went  to  Europe  again  in  1863  or  1864,  and  lived 
at  Rome  until  the  spring  of  1872,  when  lie  sailed  to  the  United  States,  and  died  shortly  after 
his  arrival  at  New  York.  He  has  been  very  successful  in  his  profession  as  a  painter  of  por- 
iraits  and  human  figures.  He  published  a  volume  of  poems  at  Boston  in  1847  ;  another  at 
Philadelphia  in  1848.  The  New  Pastoral  appeared  in  1855  ;  The  Home  by  the  Sea  in  1856. 
His  collected  poems,  in  two  volumes,  were  published  in  Boston  in  1860.  The  Wagoner 
of  the  Alleghanies  was  published  in  1862  ;  Sheridan's  Ride,  his  most  popular  poem,  in  1865 ; 
a  new  edition  of  his  poems,  in  three  volumes,  in  1867  ;  Good  Samaritans  in  1867. 

In  art,  the  prevailing  taste  among  Americans  is  for  landscapes,  and  in  poetry  there  is  a 
similar  fondness  for  descriptions  of  natural  scenery.  Where  the  author  gives  only  an 
enumeration  of  natural  features,  —  as  it  were,  a  rhymed  catalogue,  —  he  speedily  becomes 
tiresome.  But  a  landscape,  as  seen  in  a  poet's  vision,  and  reproduced  as  a  whole  by  clear, 
bold  strokes,  appeals  to  the  imagination  as  strongly  as  any  form  of  creative  art.  Mr.  Read 
has  painted  an  autumn  scene  with  equal  fidelity  and  picturesque  power.  It  is  worthy  of 
being  studied  beside  the  best  works  of  the  kind.  He  is  more  than  a  seeker  of  epithets,  and 
his  poems  are  more  than  accumulations  of  mosaics.  We  are  frequently  reminded  by  the 
sudden  presentation  of  some  grand  image  that  we  are  in  contact  with  a  mind  of  original 
force,  and  we  also  see  the  hand  of  the  artist  in  the  just  proportions  and  in  the  harmonious 
accessories  of  the  poem. 

THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 

WITHIN  his  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees 

The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air, 
Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of  ease, 

When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare. 

The  gray  barns,  looking  from  their  hazy  hills 
O'er  the  dim  waters  widening  in  the  vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills, 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed  and  all  sounds  subdued, 
The  hills  seemed  farther  and  the  streams  sang  low; 

As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled  blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  in  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial  hue, 

Now  stood,  like  some  sad  beaten  host  of  old, 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ.  477 

On  slumbrous  wings  the  vulture  held  his  flight ; 

The  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  mate's  complaint; 
And  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  the  light, 

The  village  church-vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint. 

The  sentinel-cock  upon  the  hill-side  crew  — 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  before,  — 

Silent  till  some  replying  warder  blew 

His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jay,  within  the  elm's  tall  crest, 

Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her  unfledged  young, 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest, 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung  :  — 

Where  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves, 

The  busy  swallows,  circling  ever  near, 
Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 

An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous  year  ;  — 

Where  every  bird  which  charmed  the  vernal  feast, 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at  morn, 

To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east,  — 
All  now  was  songless,  empty,  and  forlorn. 

Alone  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the  quail, 
And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the  dreamy  gloom  ; 

Alone' the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers ; 

The  spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds  night  by  night ; 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by,  passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  cheerless  air, 

And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  Year  stood  there 
Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch  ;  — 

Amid  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene, 

The  white-haired  matron,  with  monotonous  tread, 

Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien, 
Sat  like  a  Fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

She  had  known  Sorrow,  —  he  had  walked  with  her, 
Oft  supped  and  broke  the  bitter  ashen  crust ; 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer  bloom, 
Her  country  summoned,  and  she  gave  her  all ; 

And  twice  War  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume  — 
Regave  the  swords  to  rust  upon  her  wall. 

Regave  the  swords,  — but  not  the  hand  that  drew 

And  struck  for  Liberty  its  dying  blow, 
Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 

Fell  'mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on, 
Like  the  low  murmur  of  £  hive  at  noon  ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 
Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous  tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped  :  her  head  was  bowed ; 

Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  his  hands  serene,  — 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  careful  shroud, 

While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the  autumn  scene. 


NIGHTFALL. 

I  SAW  in  the  silent  afternoon 

The  overladen  sun  go  down  ; 
While,  in  the  opposing  sky,  the  moon, 

Between  the  steeples  of  the  town, 

Went  upward,  like  a  golden  scale 

Outweighed  by  that  which  sank  beyond  ; 

And  over  the  river,  and  over  the  vale, 
With  odors  from  the  lily-pond, 

The  purple  vapors  calmly  swung  ; 

And,  gathering  in  the  twilight  trees, 
The  many  vesper  minstrels  sung 

Their  plaintive  midday  memories, 

Till,  one  by  one,  they  dropped  away 
From  music  into  slumber  deep  ; 


THOMAS    BUCHANAN    READ. 


479 


And  now  the  very  woodlands  lay 

Folding  their  shadowy  wings  in  sleep. 

O,  Peace  !  that  like  a  vesper  psalm 
Hallows  the  daylight  at  its  close ; 

O,  Sleep  !  that  like  the  vapor's  calm 
Mantles  the  spirit  in  repose,  — 

Through  all  the  twilight  falling  dim, 

Through  all  the  song  which  passed  away, 

Ye  did  not  stoop  your  wings  to  him 
Whose  shallop  on  the  river  lay 

Without  an  oar,  without  a  helm  ;  — 
His  great  soul  in  his  marvellous  eyes 

Gazing  on  from  realm  to  realm 
Through  all  the  world  of  mysteries  ! 


SONG  OF  THfi  ALPINE  GUIDE. 


ON  Zurich's  spires,  with  rosy  light, 

The  mountains  smile  at  morn  and  eve, 
And  Zurich's  waters,  blue  and  bright, 

The  glories  of  those  hills  receive. 
And  there  my  sister  trims  her  sail, 

That  like  a  wayward  swallow  flies ; 
Put  I  would  rather  meet  the  gale 

That  fans  the  eagle  in  the  skies. 

She  sings  in  Zurich's  chapel  choir, 

Where  rolls  the  organ  on  the  air, 
And  bells  proclaim,  from  spire  to  spire, 

Their  universal  call  to  prayer. 
But  let  me  hear  the  mountain  rills, 

And  old  St.  Bernard's  storm-bell  toll, 
And,  'mid  these  great  cathedral  hills, 

The  thundering  avalanches  roll. 

My  brother  wears  a  martial  plume, 

And  serves  within  a  distant  land,  — 
The  flowers  that  on  his  bosom  blcom 

Are  placed  there  by  a  stranger  hand. 
Love  meets  him  but  in  foreign  eyes, 

And  greets  him  in  a  foreign  speech,  — 
But  she  who  to  my  heart  replies 

Must  speak  the  tongue  these  mountains  teach. 

The  warrior's  trumpet  o'er  him  swells, 
The  triumph  which  it  only  hath  ; 

But  let  me  hear  the  mule-worn  bells 
Speak  peace  in  every  mountain  path. 


His  spear  is  ever  'gainst  a  foe, 

Where  waves  the  hostile  flag  abroad  ;- 
My  pike-staff  only  cleaves  the  snow, 

My  banner  the  blue  sky  of  God. 

On  Zurich's  side  my  mother  sits, 

And  to  her  whirring  spindle  sings  — 
Througk  Zurich's  wave  my  father's  nets 

Sweep  daily  with  their  filmy  wings. 
To  that  beloved  voice  I  list, 

And  view  that  father's  toil  with  pride  ; 
But,  like  a  low  and  vale-born  mist, 

My  spirit  climbs  the  mountain  side. 

And  I  would  ever  hear  the  stir 

And  turmoil  of  the  singing  winds, 
Whose  viewless. wheels  around  me  whirr, 

Whose  distaffs  are  the  swaying  pines. 
And,  on  some  snowy  mountain  head, 

The  deepest  joy  to  me  is  given, 
When,  net-like,  the  great  storm  is  spread 

To  sweep  the  azure  lake  of  heaven. 

Then,  since  the  vale  delights  me  not, 

And  Zurich  wooes  in  vain  below, 
And  it  hath  been  my  joy  and  lot 

To  scale  these  Alpine  crags  of  snow  — 
And  since  in  life  I  loved  them  well, 

Let  me  in  death  lie  down  with  them, 
And  let  the  pines  and  tempests  swell 

Around  me  their  great  requiem. 


HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


DRIFTING. 


MY  soul  to-day 
Is  far  away, 

Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay  ; 
My  winged  boat, 
A  bird  afloat, 


Over  the  rail 
My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail ; 
A  joy  intense, 
The  ccolinsr  sense 


Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote  :  —          Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 


Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw, 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim, 
The  mountains  swim ; 

While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim, 
With  outstretched  hands, 
The  gray  smoke  stands 

O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  liquid  miles ; 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits, 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  heed  not,  if 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff;  — 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Under  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  Bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day,  so  mild, 

Is  Heaven's  own  child, 
With  Earth  and  Ocean  reconciled  ; 

The  airs  I  feel 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 


With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Where  Summer  sings  and  never  dies,  — 

O'erveiled  with  vines, 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Her  children,  hid 

The  cliffs  amid, 
Are  gambolling  with  the  gambolling  kid  ; 

Or  down  the  walls, 

With  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher's  child, 

With  tresses  wild, 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 

With  glowing  lips 

Sings  as  she  skips, 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 

Yon  deep  bark  goes 

Where  Traffic  blows, 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows ;  — 

This  happier  one 

Its  course  is  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

O,  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip  I 

O,  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew. 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar  I 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise  I 


RICHARD    GRANT    WHITE.  481 


RICHARD   GRANT   WHITE. 

Richard  Grant  White  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  May  23,  1822,  and  was  grad- 
uated at  the  University  of  New  York  in  1839.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1845,  but 
soon  devoted  himself  to  literature,  especially  to  the  works  of  Shakespeare  and  his  contempo- 
raries. His  principal  work,  for  which  his  other  efforts  have  served  as  studies,  is  his  edition 
of  Shakespeare,  in  twelve  volumes,  published  by  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  Boston.  In  this  he 
has  shown  himself  an  accomplished  scholar  and  philologist,  and  earned  the  respect  of  all 
cultivated  men.  He  published  a  treatise,  entitled  Shakespeare's  Scholar,  in  1854,  and  an 
Essay  on  the  Authorship  of  King  Henry  VI.,  in  1859.  He  edited  a  collection  of  National 
Hymns  in  1861,  and  a  collection  of  the  Poetry  of  the  Civil  War  in  1866.  He  published,  in 
1870,  a  work  entitled  Words  and  their  Uses,  a  valuable  aid  to  students  and  men  of  letters. 
He  was  for  some  years  editor  of  the  New  York  Courier  and  Enquirer  ;  he  was  a  leading 
contributor  to  Putnam's  Monthly,  and  is  now  understood  to  be  the  editor  of  The  Galaxy, 
a  literary  magazine  in  New  York. 

As  a  writer  he  is  positive  in  tone,  and  forcible  and  idiomatic  in  expression.  His  works 
show  great  industry,  and  the  results  of  critical  observation  in  language,  history,  and  manners. 

SHAKESPEARE'S  GENIUS. 

PURELY  English  as  Shakespeare  was  in  what  we  may  call  the 
externals  of  his  dramatic  art,  he  was  in  no  respect  more  so  than  in 
his  style.  In  the  earlier  half  of  the  sixteenth  century,  Italian  liter- 
ature had  begun  to  exercise  a  modifying  influence  upon  that  of  Eng- 
land, and  especially  upon  English  poetry.  .  .  .  In  Shakespeare's 
writings  it  does  not  appear  —  except,  perhaps,  in  his  Venus  and 
Adonis.  His  very  sonnets  are  free  from  any  traits  of  Italian  spirit 
or  versification.  He  went  to  Italian  literature,  —  in  his  time  the 
great  mint  and  treasure-house  of  fiction,  —  but  it  was  only  for  the 
raw  material  of  a  tragedy  like  Othello,  or  a  comedy  like  the  Mer- 
chant of  Venice.  He  doubtless  read  Italian  well  enough  to  master 
the  works  of  the  early  Italian  novelists  ;  but,  although  the  literature 
of  that  language  could  not  but  have  insensibly  enlivened  his  genius, 
and  .enriched  his  stores  of  thought,  it  had  no  perceptible  effect  upon 
his  mental  tone,  his  turn  of  expression,  or  his  choice  of  imagery. 
He  is  as  free  from  the  influence  of  this  as  he  is  from  that  classic 
literature  —  the  imitation  of  which  was  in  vogue  with  the  regularly 
educated  writers  of  his  day.  His  vocabulary,  at  once  his  means  of 
thought  and  medium  of  expression,  is  merely  that  of  his  time,  that 
which  was  used  by  his  dramatic  contemporaries,  and  by  the  trans- 
lators of  the  Bible.  Writing  for  the  general  public,  he  used  such 
language  as  would  convey  his  meaning  to  his  auditors, —  the  com- 
mon phraseology  of  his  period.  But  what  a  language  that  was  !  In 
its  capacity  for  the  varied  and  exact  expression  of  all  moods  of 


482  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

mind,  all  forms  of  thought,  all  kinds  of  emotion,  a  tongue  unequalled 
by  any  other  known  to  literature  !  A  language  of  exhaustless 
variety ;  strong  without  ruggedness,  and  flexible  without  effeminacy. 
A  manly  tongue  ;  yet  bending  itself  gracefully  and  lovingly  to  the 
tenderest  and  daintiest  needs  of  woman,  and  capable  of  giving 
utterance  to  the  most  awful  and  impressive  thoughts  in  homely 
words  that  come  from  the  lips  and  go  to  the  heart  of  childhood.  It 
would  seem  as  if  this  language  had  been  preparing  itself  for  cen- 
turies to  be  the  fit  medium  of  utterance  for  the  world's  greatest  poet. 
Hardly  more  than  a  generation  had  passed  since  the  English  tongue 
had  reached  its  perfect  maturity,  —  just  time  enough  to  have  it  well 
worked  into  the  unconscious  usage  of  the  people,  when  Shakespeare 
appeared,  to  lay  upon  it  a  burden  of  thought  which  would  test  its 
extremest  capability.  He  found  it  fully  formed  and  developed,  but 
not  yet  uniformed,  and  cramped,  and  disciplined  by  the  lexicogra- 
phers and  rhetoricians  —  those  martinets  of  language,  who  seem  to 
have  lost  for  us  in  force  and  flexibility  as  much  as  they  have  gained 
for  us  in  precision.  The  phraseology  of  that  day  was  notably  large 
and  simple  among  ordinary  writers  and  speakers.  Among  the  col- 
lege-bred writers  and  their  imitators,  there  was  too  great  a  fondness 
for  little  conceits  ;  but  even  with  them  this  was  an  extraneous  blem- 
ish, like  that  sometimes  found  in  the  ornament  upon  a  noble  build- 
ing. Shakespeare  seized  this  instrument,  to  whose  tones  all  ears 
were  open,  and,  with  the  touch  of  a  master,  he  brought  out  all  its 
harmonies.  It  lay  ready  to  any  hand,  but  his  was  the  first  to  use 
it  with  absolute  control ;  and  among  all  his  successors,  great  as 
some  are,  he  has  had,  even  in  this  single  respect,  no  rival.  No 
unimportant  condition  of  his  supreme  mastery  over  expression 
was  his  entire  freedom  from  constraint  —  it  may  almost  be  said 
from  consciousness  —  in  the  choice  of  language.  He  was  no  pre- 
cisian, no  etymologist,  no  purist.  He  was  not  purposely  writing 
literature.  The  only  criticism  that  he  feared  was  that  of  his  au- 
dience, which  represented  the  English  people  of  all  grades  above 
the  peasantry.  These  he  wished  should  not  find  his  writing 
incomprehensible  or  dull :  no  more.  If  we  except  the  translators 
of  the  Bible,  Shakespeare  wrote  the  best  English  that  has  yet 
been  written  ;  but  they  who  speak  of  it  as  remarkably  pure,  that  is, 
as  having  a  notably  small  admixture  of  Romance  words,  utter 
mere  vague,  unwarranted  encomium.  In  the  sixteenth  century 
there  were  probably  more  Romance  words  adopted  into  our  lan- 
guage than  there  had  been  before,  or  have  been  since,  if  we  exclude 


DONALD    GRANT   MITCHELL.  483 

words  of  technical  or  quasi  technical  character.  These  words 
Shakespeare  and  the  translators  of  the  Bible  used  at  need  with 
unconscious  freedom.  The  vocabularies,  both  of  the  Bible  and 
of  Shakespeare's  plays,  show  forty  per  cent,  of  Romance  or  Latin 
words,  which,  with  the  exception  just  named,  is  probably  a  larger 
proportion  than  is  now  used  by  our  best  writers,  —  certainly 
larger  than  is  heard  from  those  who  speak  their  mother  tongue 
with  spontaneous  idiomatic  correctness.  So  many  Latin  words 
having  been  adopted  into  the  English  language  in  the  Elizabethan 
era,  and  English  having  been  up  to  that  period  almost  excluded 
from  literature,  the  Latin  element  then  retained  much  of  its  native 
character,  to  which  fact  is  due,  in  some  measure,  Shakespeare's  use 
of  words  of  Latin  origin  in  their  radical  signification.  But  although 
he  uses  them  thus  oftener  than  any  of  his  contemporaries,  we  may 
be  sure  that  it  was  the  result  of  no  yielding  to  the  constraints  of 
scholarship.  In  brief,  words  were  his  slaves,  not  he  theirs  ;  and  if 
one  could  serve  his  purpose  better  than  another,  he  did  not  stop 
to  ask  the  birthplace  or  to  trace  the  lineage  of  his  servant. 


DONALD   GRANT  MITCHELL. 

Donald  Grant  Mitchell  was  born  in  Norwich,  Conn.,  in  April,  1822,  and  was  graduated 
at  Yale  College  in  1841.  Being  in  delicate  health,  he  spent  a  few  years  on  his  grandfather's 
farm,  and  became  greatly  interested  in  husbandry.  He  went  to  England  in  1844,  and  ram- 
bled through  every  county  on  foot ;  he  wrote  letters  from  thence  for  the  Albany  Cultivator. 
After  passing  eighteen  months  on  the  continent,  he  returned  home  and  published  an  account 
of  his  travels,  entitled  Fresh  Gleanings,  or  a  New  Sheaf  from  the  Old  Fields  of  Continental 
Europe,  by  Ik  Marvel.  He  visited  Europe  a  second  time  in  1848,  and  on  his  return  pub- 
lished The  Battle  Summer.  He  next  published  a  serial,  entitled  The  Lorgnette,  afterwards 
collected  in  two  volumes.  About  the  same  time  appeared  his  most  popular  work,  The  Rev- 
eries of  a  Bachelor.  This  is  a  series  of  dainty  pictures  of  life  as  seen  by  a  susceptible  and 
romantic  youth,  and  is  extremely  fascinating  to  those  who  have  not  advanced  beyond  its 
tender  and  ecstatic  experiences.  A  second  volume,  entitled  Dream  Life,  appeared  a  year 
later.  Fudge  Doings,  published  in  1854,  is  the  title  of  a  series  of  sketches  of  fashionable  life 
that  originally  appeared  in  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine.  In  1853  he  was  appointed  consul 
to  Venice.  On  his  return  in  1855  he  settled  upon  his  farm  near  New  Haven,  where  he  has 
since  resided.  The  time  of  Mr.  Mitchell's  retirement  to  his  farm  marks  a  great  change  in 
the  style  and  character  of  his  works.  My  Farm  of  Edgewood,  published  in  1863,  is  a  charm- 
ing book,  full  of  bright  pictures,  and  retaining  enough  of  the  grace  of  his  early  manner  with- 
out its  rather  cloying  sentiment.  Wet  Days  at  Edgewood  (1864)  contains  some  agreeable 
accounts  of  ancient  writers  upon  agriculture.  These  were  followed  by  Seven  Stories  in 
1865,  Doctor  Johns,  a  novel,  in  1867,  and  Rural  Studies  in  1867. 

Mr.  Mitchell's  eminent  characteristic  is  grace.  He  has  seen  much  and  read  much,  and 
we  feel,  while  following  his  guidance,  that  he  is  shrewd  and  observant,  kindly  and  hopeful, 


484       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

just  and  dispassionate.  His  books,  especially  his  later  ones,  have  a  healthy  and  maniy 
tone,  with  an  unobtrusive  but  pervading  humor.  The  possessor  of  these  rare  qualities 
must  be  reckoned  among  our  most  delightful  writers.  He  is  said  to  be  engaged  in  writing 
a  history  of  Venice. 

[From  My  Farm  of  Edgewood.] 
WATER   IN   LANDSCAPE. 

I  BELIEVE  there  is  nothing  in  nature  which  so  enlaces  one's  love 
for  the  country,  and  binds  it  with  willing  fetters,  as  the  silver  meshes 
of  a  brook.  Not  for  its  beauty  only,  but  for  its  changes  ;  it  is  the 
warbler  ;  it  is  the  silent  muser ;  it  is  the  loiterer ;  it  is  the  noisy 
brawler ;  and,  like  all  brawlers,  beats  itself  into  angry  foam,  and 
turns  in  the  eddies  demurely  penitent,  and  runs  away  to  sulk  under 
the  bush.  Brooks,  too,  pique  terribly  a  man's  audacity,  if  he  have 
any  eye  for  landscape  gardening.  It  seems  so  manageable  in  all  its 
wildness.  Here  in  the  glen  a  bit  of  dam  will  give  a  white  gush  of 
waterfall,  and  a  pouring  sluice  to  some  overshot  wheel ;  and  the 
wheel  shall  have  its  connecting  shaft  and  whirl  of  labors.  Of 
course  there  shall  be  a  little  scape-way  for  the  trout  to  pass  up 
and  down ;  a  rustic  bridge  shall  spring  across  somewhere  below, 
and  the  stream  shall  be  coaxed  into  loitering  where  you  will, — 
under  the  roots  of  a  beech  that  leans  over  the  water;  into  a 
broad  pool  of  the  pasture  close,  where  the  cattle  may  cool  them- 
selves in  August.  In  short,  it  is  easy  to  see  how  a  brook  may  be 
held  in  leash,  and  made  to  play  the  wanton  for  you  summer  after 
summer.  I  do  not  forget  that  poor  Shenstone  ruined  himself  by 
his  coquetries  with  the  trees  and  brooks  at  Leasowes.  I  commend 
the  story  of  the  bankrupt  poet  to  those  who  are  about  laying  out 
country  places. 

Meantime  our  eyes  shall  run  where  the  brooks  are  running  —  to 
the  sea.  It  must  be  admitted  that  a  sea  view  gives  the  final  and 
the  kingly  grace  to  a  country  home.  A  lake  view  and  a  river 
view  are  well  in  their  way,  but  the  hills  hem  them  ;  the  great  reach, 
which  is  a  type,  and,  as  it  were,  a  vision  of  the  future,  does  not  be- 
long to  them.  There  is  none  of  that  joyous  strain  to  the  eye  in 
looking  on  them  which  a  sea  view  provokes.  The  ocean  seems  to 
absorb  all  narrowness,  and  tides  it  away,  and  dashes  it  into  yeasty 
multiple  of  its  own  illimitable  width.  A  man  may  be  small  by  birth, 
but  he  cannot  grow  smaller  with  the  sea  always  in  his  eye. 


DONALD    GRANT    MITCHELL.  485 

[From  the  Same.] 
MY   GARDEN. 

I  ENTER  upon  my  garden  by  a  little  crazy,  rustic  wicket,  over 
which  a  Virginia  creeper  has  tossed  itself  into  a  careless  tangle  of 
festoons.  The  entrance  is  overshadowed  by  a  cherry  tree,  which 
must  be  nearly  half  a  century  old,  and  which,  as  it  filches  easily  very 
much  of  the  fertilizing  material  that  is  bestowed  upon  the  garden, 
makes  a  weightier  show  of  fruit  than  can  be  boasted  by  any  of  the 
orchard  company.  .  .  . 

I  have  provided  also  a  leafy  protection  for  this  garden  against  the 
sweep  of  winds  from  the  north-west :  northward,  this  protection  con- 
sists of  a  wild  belt  of  tangled  growth  —  sumacs,  hickories,  cedars, 
wild-cherries,  oaks  —  separated  from  the  northern  walk  of  the  gar- 
den by  a  trim  hedge-row  of  hemlock-spruce.  This  tangled  belt  is 
of  a  spontaneous  growth,  and  has  shot  up  upon  a  strip  of  the 
neglected  pasture  land,  from  which,  seven  years  since,  I  trenched 
the  area  of  the  garden.  Thus  it  is  not  only  a  protection,  but  offers 
a  pleasant  contrast  of  what  the  whole  field  might  have  been,  with 
what  the  garden  now  is.  I  must  confess  that  I  love  these  savage 
waymarks  of  progressive  tillage,  as  I  love  to  meet  here  and  there 
some  stolid  old-time  thinker,  whom  the  rush  of  modern  ideas  has 
left  in  picturesque  isolation. 

Time  and  again  some  enterprising  gardener  has  begged  the  privi- 
lege of  uprooting  this  strip  of  wilderness,  and  trenching  to  the  skirt 
of  the  wall  beyond  it ;  but  I  have  guarded  the  waste  as  if  it  were  a 
crop  ;  the  cheewits  and  thrushes  make  their  nests  undisturbed  there. 
The  long,  firm,  gravel  alley  which  traverses  the  garden  from  north  to 
south,  traverses  also  this  bit  of  savage  shrubbery,  and,  by  a  latticed 
gate,  opens  upon  smooth  grass  lands  beyond,  which  are  skirted  with 
forest. 

Within  this  tangle-wood,  I  have  set  a  few  graftlings  upon  a  wild- 
crab,  and  planted  a  peach  or  two  —  only  to  watch  the  struggle  which 
these  artificial  people  will  make  with  their  wild  neighbors.  And  so 
various  is  the  growth  within  this  limited  belt,  that  my  children  pick 
there,  in  their  seasons,  luscious  dewberries,  huckleberries,  wild 
raspberries,  billberries,  and  choke-cherries  ;  and,  in  autumn,  gather 
bouquets  of  golden-rod  and  asters,  set  off  with  crimson  tufts  of 
sumac,  and  the  scarlet  of  maple  boughs.  And  when  I  see  the  bril- 
liancy of  these,  and  smack  the  delicate  flavor  of  the  wild  fruit,  it 
makes  me  doubt  if  our  progress  is,  after  all,  as  grand  as  it  should 


486       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

be,  or  as  \ve  vainly  believe  it  to  be  ;  and  (to  renew  my  parallel) 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  old-time  and  gone-by  thinkers  may  possibly 
have  given  us  as  piquant  and  marrowy  suggestions  upon  whatever 
subject  of  human  knowledge  they  touched,  as  the  hot-house  philos- 
ophers of  to-day.  I  never  open,  of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  upon  the 
yellowed  pages  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  but  his  flavor,  andr  affluence,  and 
homely  wealth  of  allusions  suggest  the  tangled  wild  of  the  garden 
with  its  starry  flowers,  its  piquant  berries,  its  scorn  of  human  rul- 
ings, its  unkempt  vigor,  its  boughs  and  tendrils  stretching  heaven- 
ward ;  and  I  never  water  a  reluctant  hill  of  yellow  cucumbers,  and 
coax  it  with  all  manner  of  concentrated  fertilizers  into  bearing,  but 

I  think  of  the  elegant  education  of  the  dapper  Dr. ,  and  of  the 

sappy  and  flavorless  results. 

[From  the  Same.] 
THE   POULTRY. 

AT  certain  times,  when  the  condition  of  the  garden  or  crops 
allows  it,  I  permit  my  fowls  free  forage ;  and  as  they  stroll  off  over 
the  lawn  and  among  the  shrubberies,  it  sometimes  happens  that  they 
come  in  contact  with  the  more  vagabond  birds  of  the  larger  farm 
family.  The  hens  take  the  meeting  philosophically,  with  a  well-bred 
lack  of  surprise,  and  are  not  deterred  for  a  moment  from  their  for- 
age employ  ;  perhaps  (if  with  a  brood)  giving  an  admonitory  cluck 
to  their  chicks  to  keep  near  them,  —  even  as  old  ladies  with  daugh- 
ters, in  a  strange  place,  advise  caution,  without  enjoining  positive 
non-intercourse. 

The  ducks,  on  the  contrary,  in  a  very  low-bred  manner,  give  way 
to  a  world  of  surprises,  and  gad  about  each  other,  dipping  their 
heads,  and  quacking,  and  bickering,  like  old  gossips  long  time  apart, 
who  pour  interminable  scandal  in  each  other's  ears.  The  cocks 
make  an  honest,  fair  fight  of  it,  and  one  goes  home  draggled,  con- 
fining himself  thereafter  to  his  own  quarters. 

The  turkeys  meet  as  fine  ladies  do,  tiptoeing  round  and  round, 
and  eying  each  other  with  earnest  scrutiny,  and  abundant  curvet- 
ings  of  the  neck,  —  very  stately,  dignified,  and  impudent  —  stooping 
to  browse,  perhaps  (ladies  sniff  thus  at  vinaigrettes),  as  if  no  strange 
fowl  were  near,  —  which  is  merest  affectation.  They  summon  their 
little  families  into  close  order,  as  if  fearing  contagion,  and,  eying 
each  other,  wander  apart,  without  a  sign  of  companionship  or  a  gob- 
ble of  leave-taking. 


JAMES    PARTON.  487 


JAMES   PARTON. 

James  Parton  was  born  at  Canterbury,  England,  February  g,  1822.  He  was  brought  to 
New  York  at  the  age  of  five  years,  and  received  his  education  at  an  academy  at  White 
Plains.  He  was  a  school  teacher  for  a  time,  and  afterwards  was  engaged  as  an  assistant 
editor  of  the  Home  Journal.  He  wrote  a  Life  of  Horace  Greeley,  which  was  published  in 
1855.  This  was  followed  by  a  Life  of  Aaron  Burr  in  1857,  and  a  Life  of  Andrew  Jackson,  in 
three  volumes,  in  1859-60.  He  made  a  collection  of  the  Humorous  Poetry  of  the  English 
Language,  which  was  printed  in  1856.  In  1863  he  wrote  an  account  of  General  Butler  in 
New  Orleans  ;  in  1864  a  Biography  of  Franklin,  in  two  volumes  ;  in  1865  the  Life  of  John 
Jacob  Astor  ;  in  1866  How  New  York  City  is  Governed  ;  Famous  Americans  in  1867  ;  the 
People's  Book  of  Biography  in  1868 ;  Smoking  and  Drinking  in  1868  ;  the  Danish  Islands  in 
1869.  He  has  lately  begun  an  elaborate  Biography  of  Jefferson  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 
He  has  been  a  contributor  to  the  Atlantic  and  to  other  periodicals,  and  has  treated  in  his 
attractive  style  of  a  great  variety  of  topics,  from  Chicago  shambles  to  Providence  silver  plate. 

Mr.  Parton  is  a  man  of  indefatigable  industry,  and  has  built  his  many  biographies  upon  the 
results  of  faithful  study.  He  has  a  rare  pictorial  art,  and  employs  in  narrative  the  countless 
bits  of  detail  he  has  gathered  with  strong  effect.  Under  his  hand  the  character  grows  to 
life-like  proportions,  as  the  clay  puts  on  the  form  of  man  when  moulded  by  the  artist.  It  is 
safe  to  say  of  any  one  of  his  works  that  it  is  interesting  ;  and  the  interest  is  not  merely  in 
the  style,  in  the  usual  meaning  of  the  word  :  it  lies  rather  in  the  mastery  of  the  subject. 

But  when  we  have  finished  some  of  his  books,  and  would  consider  the  moral  aspect  of  the 
characters  he  has  drawn  for  us,  we  are  forced  to  pause.  The  sharp  lines  between  truth  and 
falsehood,  between  right  and  wrong,  are  not  always  to  be  seen.  We  know  that  much  is  to 
be  pardoned  to  the  biographer,  because  he  naturally  becomes  an  advocate,  and  we  have  been 
accustomed  to  see  defences  and  extenuations  put  forth  for  the  greatest  scoundrels  in  history. 
Where  the  biographer  makes  palpable  misstatements  the  mischief  is  easily  corrected,  for  the 
critic  goes  over  the  work  with  a  sharp  pencil  and  marks  dele>  as  he  would  upon  a  faulty 
proof-sheet.  But  where  the  animating  spirit  of  the  writer  is  wrong,  and  he  wilfully  or 
ignornntly  confounds  the  everlasting  ideas  of  rectitude,  there  is  no  setting  it  right  for  the 
inex-'crencecl  reader.  It  maybe  that  we  could  not  point  out  many  untrue  paragraphs  in 
the  Life  of  Burr,  but  not  even  Mr.  Parton's  plausible  art  can  satisfy  those  who  know  the 
history  of  the  last  century,  that  Burr  was  not  a  thoroughly  depraved  man.  Much  as  we  may 
admire  many  traits  in  Jackson's  character,  no  candid  man  will  assert  that  his  was  a  soul  that 
could  at  all  times  bear  the  clear  light  of  truth.  In  Mr.  Parton's  book,  the  facts  that  might 
cloud  Jackson's  character,  and  exhibit  him  as  an  intriguing  and  unscrupulous  politician,  are 
generally  set  aside,  or,  if  admitted,  are  palliated  and  defended  from  the  necessities  of  the 
cns^.  In  his  Famous  Americans,  at  least  one  man  is  held  up  to  the  admiration  of  youth 
\vhos°  whole  life  has  been  a  scene  of  successful  trickery,  or  robberv  under  forms  of  law  ;  as 
though  the  possession  of  wea'th.  rrovicled  one  has  enough  of  it,  is  sufficient  to  make  any 
rne'Ts  taken  to  acquire  it  respectable.  When  Mr.  Parton  assumes  a  hi.ch  moral  tone,  and 
holds  up  the  sins  of  public  men  to  reprobation,  it  would  seem  to  be  because  h-t  v.vniH  take  n 
person  whom  he  disliked  to  use  as  a  warning.  The  historian  of  politics  and  the  rigi.l 
moralist  judge  men  by  very  different  standards.  In  comparing  two  contemporary  states- 
men, it  ij  qiu'te  important  that  the  writer  should  apply  the  same  rules  to  both.  But  Mr. 
Parton,  while  he  paints  the  sensual  traits,  and  other  dark  fea  ures  of  Mr.  Webster's  char- 
acter, with  an  unsparing  brush,  has  nothing  but  delicate  words  of  praise  for  Mr.  Clay. 
Now,  Mr  Clay  was  in  no  respect  morally  superior  to  his  great  rival,  and  had  less  of  a  real 
manly  generosity  in  his  nature.  Mr.  Clay  was  adored  by  the  common  people  for  his 
gracious  manners ;  but  his  selfishness  in  pursuit  of  office,  and  his  unwillingness  to  allow 
any  other  Kentucloan  to  rise  during  his  lifetime,  are  perfectly  well  known.  Long  before 
his  death  he  had  alienated  the  affections  of  every  great  family  and  every  rising  lawyer  in  the 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

state,  and  though  his  popularity  outwardly  remained,  he  was  thoroughly  hated  in  secret  by 
all  of  the  able  men. 

The  comparison  between  these  two  men  is  mentioned  merely  as  an  instance  of  the  fatal 
lurches  to  which  Mr.  Parton  is  subject.  All  his  crows  are  white.  While  we  find  in  his 
works  a  rare  fascination,  and  can  read  them  with  profit,  it  is  necessary  to  bear  in  mind  his 
tendency  to  exalt  his  heroes  and  to  blacken  their  rivals  ;  and  we  should  hold  a  steady 
balance  of  judgment  when  we  are  asked  by  him  to  doubt  the  verdicts  of  impartial  writers 
upon  the  characters  of  public  men. 

In  the  midst  of  the  scandalous  and  shameless  pursuit  of  gain  that  prevails  among  financiers, 
speculators,  and  office-holders  in  this  country,  the  writer  of  books  for  the  young  has  a  plain 
duty  to  perform  ;  and  we  cannot  too  strongly  condemn  the  complaisance  that  passes  over 
in  silence  the  frauds  and  conspiracies  by  which  vast  fortunes  are  accumulated  at  the  expense 
of  the  honest  and  helpless  public. 

Either  these  lives  of  selfish  millionnaires  and  selfish  politicians  should  not  be  written  at  all, 
or  the  full  truth  should  be  told ;  else  in  time  the  idea  of  moral  beauty  in  character  might 
become  like  the  legends  of  a  fabulous  golden  age. 

[From  Famous  Americans  of  Modern  Times.] 
A   PORTRAIT   OF   STEPHEN   GIRARD. 

WITHIN  the  memory  of  many  persons  still  alive,  "  old  Girard,"  as 
the  famous  banker  was  usually  styled,  —  a  short,  stout,  brisk  old  gen- 
tleman, —  used  to  walk,  in  his  swift,  awkward  way,  the  streets  of  the 
lower  part  of  Philadelphia.  Though  everything  about  him  indicated 
that  he  had  very  little  in  common  with  his  fellow-citizens,  he  was  the 
marked  man  of  the  city  for  more  than  a  generation.  His  aspect 
was  rather  insignificant  and  quite  unprepossessing.  His  dress  was 
old-fashioned  and  shabby ;  and  he  wore  the  pig-tail,  the  white  neck- 
cloth, the  wide-brimmed  hat,  and  the  large-skirted  coat  of  the  last 
century.  He  was  blind  of  one  eye  ;  and  though  his  bushy  eyebrows 
gave  some  character  to  his  countenance,  it  was  curiously  devoid  of 
expression.  He  had  also  the  absent  look  of  a  man  who  either  had 
no  thoughts,  or  was  absorbed  in  thought ;  and  he  shuffled  along  on 
his  enormous  feet,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  There 
was  always  a  certain  look  of  the  old  mariner  about  him,  though  he 
had  been  fifty  years  an  inhabitant  of  the  town.  When  he  rode,  it 
was  in  the  plainest,  least  comfortable  gig  in  Philadelphia,  drawn  by 
an  ancient  and  ill-formed  horse,  driven  always  by  the  master's  own 
hand  at  a  good  pace.  He  chose  still  to  live  where  he  had  lived  for 
fifty  years,  in  Water  Street,  close  to  the  wharves,  in  a  small  and  in- 
convenient house,  darkened  by  tall  storehouses,  amid  the  bustle,  the 
noise,  and  the  odors  of  commerce.  His  sole  pleasure  was  to  visit 
once  a  day  a  little  farm  which  he  possessed  a  few  miles  out  of  town, 
where  he  was  wont  to  take  off  his  coat,  roll  up  his  shirt  sleeves,  and 
personally  labor  in  the  field  and  in  the  barn,  hoeing  corn,  pruning 
trees,  tossing  hay,  and  not  disdaining  even  to  assist  in  butchering 


JAMES    PARTON.  489 

the  animals  which  he  raised  for  market.  It  was  no  mere  ornamental 
or  experimental  farm.  He  made  it  pay.  All  of  his  produce  was 
carefully,  nay,  scrupulously  husbanded,  sold,  recorded,  and  accounted 
for.  He  loved  his  grapes,  his  plums,  his  pigs,  and  especially  his 
rare  breed  of  canary-birds  ;  but  the  people  of  Philadelphia  had  the 
full  benefit  of  their  increase  —  at  the  highest  market  rates. 

Never  was  there  a  person  more  destitute  than  Girard  of  the 
qualities  which  win  the  affection  of  others.  His  temper  was  violent, 
his  presence  forbidding,  his  usual  manner  ungracious,  his  will  in- 
flexible, his  heart  untender,  his  imagination  dead.  He  was  odious 
to  many  of  his  fellow-citizens,  who  considered  him  the  hardest  and 
meanest  of  men.  He  had  lixved  among  them  for  half  a  century,  but 
he  was  no  more  a  Philadelphian  in  1830  than  in  1776.  He  still 
spoke  with  a  French  accent,  and  accompanied  his  words  with  a 
French  shrug  and  French  gesticulation.  Surrounded  with  Christian 
churches,  which  he  had  helped  to  build,  he  remained  a  sturdy  un- 
believer, and  possessed  the  complete  works  of  only  one  man,  Voltaire. 
He  made  it  a  point  of  duty  to  labor  on  Sunday,  as  a  good  example 
to  others.  He  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  he  considered  the 
idleness  of  Sunday  an  injury,  moral  and  economical.  He  would 
have  opened  his  bank  on  Sundays  if  any  one  would  have  come 
to  it.  For  his  part,  he  required  no  rest,  and  would  have  none.  He 
never  travelled.  He  never  attended  public  assemblies  or  amuse- 
ments. He  had  no  affections  to  gratify,  no  friends  to  visit,  no 
curiosity  to  appease,  no  tastes  to  indulge.  What  he  once  said  of 
himself  appeared  to  be  true,  that  he  rose  in  the  morning  with  but  a 
single  object,  and  that  was  to  labor  so  hard  all  day  as  to  be  able  to 
sleep  at  night.  The  world  was  absolutely  nothing  to  him  but  a 
working-place.  He  scorned  and  scouted  the  opinion  that  old  men 
should  cease  to  labor,  and  should  spend  the  evening  of  their  days  in 
tranquillity.  "  No,"  he  would  say ;  "  labor  is  the  price  of  life,  its 
happiness,  its  everything  ;  to  rest  is  to  rust ;  every  man  should  labor 
to  the  last  hour  of  his  ability."  Such  was  Stephen  Girard,  the 
richest  man  who  ever  lived  in  Pennsylvania. 

This  is  an  unpleasing  picture  of  a  citizen  of  polite  and  amiable 
Philadelphia.  It  were,  indeed,  a  grim  and  dreary  world  in  which 
should  prevail  the  principles  of  Girard.  But  see  what  this  man  has 
done  for  the  city  that  loved  him  not.  Vast  and  imposing  structures 
rise  on  the  banks  of  the  Schuylkill,  wherein,  at  this  hour,  six  hun- 
dred poor  orphan  boys  are  fed,  clothed,  trained,  and  taught,  upon  the 
income  of  the  enormous  estate  which  he  won  by  this  entire  con- 


4QO  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

secration  to  the  work  of  accumulating  property.  In  the  ample 
grounds  of  Girard  College,  looking  up  at  its  five  massive  marble 
edifices,  strolling  in  its  shady  walks,  or  by  its  verdant  playgrounds, 
or  listening  to  the  cheerful  cries  of  the  boys  at  play,  the  most 
sympathetic  and  imaginative  of  men  must  pause  before  censuring 
the  sterile  and  unlovely  life  of  its  founder.  And  if  he  should  inquire 
closely  into  the  character  and  career  of  the  man  who  willed  this  great 
institution  into  being,  he  would  perhaps  be  willing  to  admit  that 
there  was  room  in  the  world  for  one  Girard,  though  it  were  a  pity 
there  should  ever  be  another.  Such  an  inquiry  would  perhaps  dis- 
close that  Stephen  Girard  was  endowed  by  nature  with  a  great  heart 
as  well  as  a  powerful  mind,  and  that  circumstances  alone  closed  and 
hardened  the  one,  cramped  and  perverted  the  other.  It  is  not  im- 
probable that  he  was  one  of  those  unfortunate  beings  who  desire  to 
be  loved,  but  whose  temper  and  appearance  combine  to  repel  affec- 
tion. His  marble  statue,  which  adorns  the  entrance  to  the  principal 
building,  if  it  could  speak,  might  say  to  us,  "  Living,  you  could  not 
understand  nor  love  me  ;  dead,  I  compel  at  least  your  respect." 
Indeed,  he  used  to  say,  when  questioned  as  to  his  career,  "  Wait  till 
I  am  dead ;  my  deeds  will  show  what  I  was." 


FRANCIS   PARKMAN. 

Francis  Parkman  was  born  in  Boston,  September  16,  1823,  and  was  graduated  at  Harvard 
College  in  1844.  He  visited  Europe,  and  on  his  return  made  a  journey  across  the  prairies 
and  among  the  Rocky  Mountains.  An  account  of  this  exploration  was  published  in  1849, 
entitled,  The  California  and  Oregon  Trail.  He  wrote  the  History  of  the  Conspiracy  of 
Pontiac  (1851),  and  Vassal  Morton,  a  novel  (about  1854).  For  nearly  ten  years  he  suffered 
from  a  severe  disease  of  the  brain,  and  was  unable  to  continue  his  historical  labors,  or  even 
at  times  to  read  so  much  as  a  newspaper.  His  cheerful  temper  and  active  habits  carried 
him  through  the  long  trial,  and  at  length  he  began  to  develop  the  idea  which  he  had  formed. ' 
This  was  to  relate  the  history  of  the  attempts  of  the  French  and  Spanish  to  colonize  North 
America.  He  was  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  Indian  character.  He  had  hunted  with 
them,  and  shared  th'iir  life  of  activity  and  their  comfortless  camps.  He  knew  the  language 
of  more  than  one  tribe.  He  made  a  careful  study,  from  original  sources,  of  the  routes  and 
adventures  of  the  early  explorers,  and  of  the  journals  of  the  Jesuit  missionaries.  He  pub- 
lished, in  1865,  a  vo'ume  entitled  Pioneers  of  France  in  the  New  World.  This  was  followed, 
in  1867,  by  The  Jesuits  in  North  America,  and  in  1869,  by  The  Discovery  of  the  Great  West 
These  three  volumes  now  form  parts,  respectively,  of  a  work  with  the  general  title  of  France 
and  England  in  North  America,  a  Series  of  Historical  Narratives.  As  the  arc  indicates  the 
completed  circle,  we  can  judge  from  these  volumes  of  the  magnitude  of  the  undertaking. 

Mr.  Parkman  writes  with  uncommon  vigor,  and  his  pages  are  alive  with  thrilling  adven- 
ture, brilliant  description,  and  romantic  episodes.  His  fairness  is  vouched  for  by  the  fact 
that,  though  a  Protestant  himself,  his  narratives  of  the  heroic  and  self  sacrificing  Jesuit 
fathers  are  warmly  commended  by  Catholic  authorities  in  this  country  and  in  Canada.  The 


FRANCIS    PARKMAN.  49! 

conflicts  of  savages  can  never  have  the  interest  for  civilized  readers  which  we  feel  in  the 
great  struggles  of  European  nations.  Battles  like  those  of  Tours,  Lepanto,  Hastings, 
Waterloo,  Sevastopol,  and  Sedan  signify  the  triumph  of  the  ideas  of  the  conquering  race  or 
nation.  The  desperate  encounters  between  Indian  tribes  settled  no  principle,  and  left  the 
equilibrium  of  mankind  undisturbed.  It  is  for  this  reason,  among  others,  that  Parkman 
has  now  less  renown  as  a  historian  than  some  of  his  more  fortunate  rivals.  He  is  further- 
more apt  to  err  in  entering  into  the  details  of  warfare  with  too  great  particularity.  The 
tawny  Ajax  or  Hector  does  not  stand  for  so  much  as  in  Homer's  time.  Mr.  Parkman  writes 
with  i he  vividness  of  an  eye-witness,  and  gives  to  each  skirmish  an  importance  somewhat 
out  of  keeping  with  a  broad  view  of  the  whole  history,  so  that  a  part  of  his  title,  a  Series  of 
Historical  Narratives,  is  more  fitting  than  we  could  desire. 

But  his  qualities  as  a  writer  are  of  a  high  order.  He  has  left  no  room  for  a  competitor  in 
the  same  field,  and  his  works,  in  our  judgment,  are  surer  of  going  down  to  posterity  as 
authorities  than  almost  any  histories  that  have  been  written  in  our  time.  Much  of  the  his- 
tory of  Europe,  and  all  of  our  own  annals,  will  some  day  be  writteiTanew.  Mr.  Parkman's 
graphic  relations,  we  believe,  will  be  read  as  long  as  the  character  and  fate  of  the  aborigines 
have  any  interest  for  the  world. 

LFrom  The  Discovery  of  the  Great  West.] 
THE   ILLINOIS   TOWN. 

Go  to  the  banks  of  the  Illinois,  where  it  flows  by  the  village 
of  Utica,  and  stand  on  the  meadow  that  borders  it  on  the  north. 
In  front  glides  the  river,  a  musket-shot  in  width,  and  from  the 
farther  bank  rises,  with  gradual  slope,  a  range  of  wooded  hills 
that  hide  from  sight  the  vast  prairie  behind  them.  A  mile  or 
more  on  your  left  these  gentle  acclivities  end  abruptly  in  the 
lofty  front  of  the  great  cliff,  called  by  the  French  the  Rock  of 
St.  Louis,  looking  boldly  out  from  the  forests  that  environ  it ; 
and,  three  miles  distant  on  your  right,  you  discern  a  gap  in  the 
steep  bluffs  that  here  bound  the  valley,  marking  the  mouth  of  the 
River  Vermilion,  called  Aramoni  by  the  French.  Now  stand, 
in  fancy,  on  this  same  spot,  in  the  early  autumn  of  the  year  1680. 
You  are  in  the  midst  of  the  great  town  of  the  Illinois,  —  hundreds 
of  mat-covered  lodges  and  thousands  of  congregated  savages. 
Enter  one  of  their  dwellings  :  they  will  not  think  you  an  intruder. 
Some  friendly  squaw  will  lay  a  mat  for  you  by  the  fire  ;  you  may 
seat  yourself  upon  it,  smoke  your  pipe,  and  study  the  lodge  and 
its  inmates  by  the  light  that  streams  through  the  holes  at  the 
top.  Three  or  four  fires  smoke  and  smoulder  on  the  ground, 
down  the  middle  of  the  long-arched  structure  ;  and,  as  to  each 
fire  there  are  two  families,  the  place  is  somewhat  crowded  when 
all  are  present.  But  now  there  is  space  and  breathing  room,  for 
many  are  in  the  fields.  A  squaw  sits  weaving  a  mat  of  rushes ; 
a  warrior,  naked,  except  his  moccasons,  and  tattooed  with  fan- 
tastic devices,  binds  a  stone  arrow-head  to  its  shaft  with  the  fresh 


492  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

sinews  of  a  buffalo.  Some  lie  asleep,  some  sit  staring  in  vacancy, 
some  are  squatted,  in  lazy  chat,  around  a  fire.  The  smoke  brings 
water  to  your  eyes  ;  the  fleas  annoy  you  ;  small,  unkempt  children, 
naked  as  young  puppies,  crawl  about  your  knees,  and  will  not  be 
repelled.  You  have  seen  enough.  You  rise  and  go  out  again  into 
the  sunlight.  It  is,  if  not  a  peaceful,  at  least  a  languid  scene. 
A  few  voices  break  the  stillness,  mingled  with  the  joyous  chirp- 
ing of  crickets  from  the  grass.  Young  men  lie  flat  on  their  faces, 
basking  in  the  sun.  A  group  of  their  elders  are  smoking  around 
a  buffalo-skin,  on  which  they  have  just  been  playing  a  game  of 
chance  with  cherry-stones.  A  lover  and  his  mistress,  perhaps,  sit 
together  under  a  shed  of  bark,  without  uttering  a  word.  Not  far 
off  is  the  graveyard,  where  lie  the  dead  of  the  village — some 
buried  in  the  earth,  some  wrapped  in  skins  and  aloft  on  scaffolds, 
above  the  reach  of  wolves.  In  the  cornfields  around  you  see 
squaws  at  their  labor,  and  children  driving  off  intruding  birds  ; 
and  your  eye  ranges  over  the  meadows  beyond,  spangled  with  the 
yellow  blossoms  of  the  resin-weed  and  the  Rudbeckia,  or  over  the 
bordering  hills  still  green  with  the  foliage  of  summer. 

This,  or  something  like  it,  one  may  safely  affirm,  was  the  aspect 
of  the  Illinois  village  at  noon  of  the  tenth  of  September.  In  a  hut, 
apart  from  the  rest,  you  would  probably  have  found  the  Frenchmen. 
Among  them  was  a  man,  not  strong  in  person,  and  disabled,  more- 
over, by  the  loss  of  a  hand,  yet,  in  this  den  of  barbarism,  betray- 
ing the  language  and  bearing  of  one  formed  in  the  most  polished 
civilization  of  Europe.  This  was  Henri  de  Ton^y.  The  others 
were  young  Boisrondet,  and  the  two  faithful  men  who  had  stood  by 
their  commander.  The  friars,  Membre  and  Ribourde,  were  not  in 
the  village,  but  at  a  hut  a  league  distant,  whither  they  had  gone  to 
make  a  "  retreat "  for  prayer  and  meditation.  Their  missionary 
labors  had  not  been  fruitful.  They  had  made  no  converts,  and 
were  in  despair  at  the  intractable  character  of  the  objects  of  their 
zeal.  As  for  the  other  Frenchmen,  time  doubtless  hung  heavy 
on  their  hands  ;  for  nothing  can  surpass  the  vacant  monotony  of 
an  Indian  town  when  there  is  neither  hunting,  nor  war,  nor  feasts, 
nor  dances,  nor  gambling  to  beguile  the  lagging  hours. 

Suddenly  the  village  was  wakened  from  its  lethargy  as  by  the 
crash  of  a  thunderbolt.  A  Shawanoe,  lately  here  on  a  visit,  had 
left  his  Illinois  friends  to  return  home.  He  now  reappeared,  cross- 
ing the  river  in  hot  haste,  with  the  announcement  that  he  had  met, 
on  his  way,  an  army  of  Iroquois  approaching  to  attack  them.  All 


FRANCIS    PARKMAN.  493 

was  panic  and  confusion.  The  lodges  disgorged  their  frightened 
inmates  ;  women  and  children  screamed,  startled  warriors  snatched 
their  weapons.  There  were  less  than  five  hundred  of  them,  for 
the  greater  part  of  the  young  men  had  gone  to  war.  A  crowd  of 
excited  savages  thronged  about  Tonty  and  his  Frenchmen,  already 
objects  of  their  suspicion,  charging  them,  with  furious  gesticulations, 
with  having  stirred  up  their  enemies  to  invade  them.  Tonty  de- 
fended himself  in  broken  Illinois,  but  the  naked  mob  were  but  half 
convinced.  They  seized  the  forge  and  tools  and  flung  them  into 
the  river,  with  all  the  goods  that  had  been  saved  from  the  desert- 
ers ;  then,  distrusting  their  power  to  defend  themselves,  they 
manned  the  wooden  canoes,  which  lay  in  multitudes  by  the  bank, 
embarked  their  women  and  children,  and  paddled  down  the  stream 
to  that  island  of  dry  land  in  the  midst  of  marshes  which  La  Salle 
afterwards  found  filled  with  their  deserted  huts.  Sixty  warriors 
remained  here  to  guard  them,  and  the  rest  returned  to  the  village. 
All  night  long  fires  blazed  along  the  shore.  The  excited  warriors 
greased  their  bodies,  painted  their  faces,  befeathered  their  heads, 
sang  their  war-songs,  danced,  stamped,  yelled,  and  brandished  their 
hatche-ts,  to  work  up  their  courage  to  face  the  crisis.  The  morning 
came,  and  with  it  came  the  Iroquois. 

Young  warriors  had  gone  out  as  scouts,  and  now  they  returned. 
They  had  seen  the  enemy  in  the  line  of  forest  that  bordered  the 
River  Aramoni,  or  Vermilion,  and  had  stealthily  reconnoitred  them. 
They  were  very  numerous,  and  armed,  for  the  most  part,  with  guns, 
pistols,  and  swords.  Some  had  bucklers  of  wood  or  raw  hide,  and 
some  wore  those  corselets  of  tough  twigs,  interwoven  with  cordage, 
which  their  fathers  had  used  when  fire-arms  were  unknown.  The 
scouts  added  more,  for  they  declared  that  they  had  seen  a  Jesuit 
among  the  Iroquois  ;  nay,  that  La  Salle  himself  was  there,  whence 
it  must  follow  that  Tonty  and  his  men  were  enemies  and  traitors. 
The  supposed  Jesuit  was  but  an  Iroquois  chief,  arrayed  in  a  black 
hat,  doublet,  and  stockings,  while  another,  equipped  after  a  some- 
what similar  fashion,  passed  in  the  distance  for  La  Salle.  But  the 
Illinois  were  furious.  Tonty's  life  hung  by  a  hair.  A  crowd  of 
savages  surrounded  him,  mad  with  rage  and  terror.  He  had  come 
lately  from  Europe,  and  knew  little  of  Indians,  but,  as  the  friar 
Membr£  says  of  him,  "  he  was  full  of  intelligence  and  courage  ;  "  and 
when  they  heard  him  declare  that  he  and  his  Frenchmen  would  go 
with  them  to  fight  the  Iroquois,  their  threats  grew  less  clamorous, 
and  their  eyes  glittered  with  a  less  deadly  lustre. 


494  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

Whooping  and  screeching,  they  ran  to  their  canoes,  crossed  the 
river,  climbed  the  woody  hill,  and  swarmed  down  upon  the  plain 
beyond.  About  a  hundred  of  them  had  guns  ;  the  rest  were  armed 
with  bows  and  arrows.  They  were  how  face  to  face  with  the  enemy, 
who  had  emerged  from  the  woods  of  the  Vermilion,  and  was  advan- 
cing on  the  open  prairie.  With  unwonted  spirit,  for  their  repute  as 
warriors  was  by  no  means  high,  the  Illinois  began,  after  their  fashion, 
to  charge  ;  that  is,  they  leaped,  yelled,  and  shot  off  bullets  and 
arrows,  advancing  as  they  did  so,  while  the  Iroquois  replied  with 
gymnastics  no  less  agile,  and  bowlings  no  less  terrific,  mingled  with 
the  rapid  clatter  of  their  guns.  Tonty  saw  that  it  would  go  hard 
with  his  allies.  It  was  of  the  last  moment  to  stop  the  fight  if  possi- 
ble. The  Iroquois  were,  or  professed  to  be,  at  peace  with  the 
French,  and,  taking  counsel  of  his  courage,  he  resolved  on  an 
attempt  to  mediate,  which  may  well  be  called  a  desperate  one.  He 
laid  aside  his  gun,  took  in  his  hand  a  wampum  belt  as  a  flag  of  truce, 
and  walked  forward  to  meet  the  savage  multitude,  attended  by  Bois- 
rondet,  another  Frenchman,  and  a  young  Illinois,  who  had  the  har- 
dihood to  accompany  him.  The  guns  of  the  Iroquois  still  flashed 
thick  and  fast.  Some  of  them  were  aimed  at  him,  on  which  he  sent 
back  the  two  Frenchmen  and  the  Illinois,  and  advanced  alone,  hold- 
ing out  the  wampum  belt.  A  moment  more  and  he  was  among  the 
infuriated  warriors.  It  was  a  frightful  spectacle  :  the  contorted 
forms,  bounding,  crouching,  twisting,  to  deal  or  dodge  the  shot ;  the 
small,  keen  eyes,  that  shone  like  an  angry  snake's  ;  the  parted  lips, 
pealing  their  fiendish  yells  ;  the  painted  features,  writhing  with  fear 
and  fury,  and  every  passion  of  an  Indian  fight ;  —  man,  wolf,  and 
devil,  all  in  one.  With  his  swarthy  complexion,  and  his  half-savage 
dress,  they  thought  he  was  an  Indian,  and  thronged  about  him,  glar-' 
ing  murder.  A  young  warrior  stabbed  at  his  heart  with  a  knife,  but 
the  point  glanced  aside  against  a  rib,  inflicting  only  a  deep  gash.  A 
chief  called  out  that,  as  his  ears  were  not  pierced,  he  must  be  a 
Frenchman.  On  this,  some  of  them  tried  to  stop  the  bleeding,  and 
led  him  to  the  rear,  where  an  angry  parley  ensued,  while  the  yells 
and  firing  still  resounded  in  the  front.  Tonty,  breathless,  and  bleed- 
ing at  the  mouth  with  the  force  of  the  blow  he  had  received,  found 
words  to  declare  that  the  Illinois  were  under  the  protection  of  the 
king  and  the  governor  of  Canada,  and  to  demand  that  they  should 
be  left  in  peace. 

A  young  Iroquois  snatched  Tonty's  hat,  placed  it  on  the  end  of 
his  gun,  and  displayed  it  to  the  Illinois,  who  thereupon,  thinking  he 


FRANCIS    PARKMAN.  495 

was  killed,  renewed  the  fight,  and  the  firing  in  front  breezed  up 
more  angrily  than  before.  A  warrior  ran  in,  crying  out  that  the  Iro- 
quois  were  giving  ground,  and  that  there  were  Frenchmen  among 
the  Illinois  who  fired  at  them.  -  On  this  the  clamor  around  Tonty 
was  redoubled.  Some  wished  to  kill  him  at  once  ;  others  resisted. 
Several  times  he  felt  a  hand  at  the  back  of  his  head  lifting  up  his 
hair,  and,  turning,  saw  a  savage  with  a  knife  standing  as  if  ready  to 
scalp  him.  A  Seneca  chief  demanded  that  he  should  be  burned. 
An  Onondaga  chief,  a  friend  of  La  Salle,  was  for  setting  him  free. 
The  dispute  grew  fierce  and  hot.  Tonty  told  them  that  the  Illinois 
were  twelve  hundred  strong,  and  that  sixty  Frenchmen  were  at  the 
village  ready  to  back  them.  This  invention,  though  not  fully  be- 
lieved, had  no  little  effect.  The  friendly  Onondaga  carried  his  point, 
and  the  Iroquois,  having  failed  to  surprise  their  enemies  as  they  had 
hoped,  now  saw  an  opportunity  to  delude  them  by  a  truce.  They 
sent  back  Tonty  with  a  belt  of  peace.  He  held  it  aloft  in  sight  of 
the  Illinois  ;  chiefs  and  old  warriors  ran  to  stop  the  fight ;  the  yells 
and  the  firing  ceased,  and  Tonty,  like  one  waked  from  a  hideous 
nightmare,  dizzy,  almost  fainting  with  loss  of  blood,  staggered  across 
the  intervening  prairie  to  rejoin  his  friends.  He  was  met  by  the  two 
friars,  Ribourde  and  Membre,  who,  in  their  secluded  hut  a  league 
from  the  village,  had  but  lately  heard  of  what  was  passing,  and  who 
now,  with  benedictions  and  thanksgiving,  ran  to  embrace  him  as  a 
man  escaped  from  the  jaws  of  death. 

The  Illinois  now  withdrew,  re-embarking  in  their  canoes,  and 
crossing  again  to  their  lodges  ;  but  scarcely  had  they  reached  them, 
when  their  enemies  appeared  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  on  the  oppo- 
site bank.  Many  found  means  to  cross,  and  under  the  pretext  of 
seeking  for  provisions,  began  to  hover  in  bands  about  the  skirts  of 
the  town,  constantly  increasing  in  numbers.  Had  the  Illinois  dared 
to  remain,  a  massacre  would  doubtless  have  ensued  ;  but  they  knew 
their  foe  too  well,  set  fire  to  their  lodges,  embarked  in  haste,  and 
paddled  down  the  stream  to  rejoin  their  women  and  children  at  the 
sanctuary  among  the  morasses.  The  whole  body  of  the  Iroquois 
now  crossed  the  river,  took  possession  of  the  abandoned  town,  build- 
ing for  themselves  a  rude  redoubt  or  fort  of  the  trunks  of  trees  and 
of  the  posts  and  poles  forming  the  framework  of  the  lodges  which 
escaped  the  fire.  Here  they  ensconced  themselves,  and  finished  the 
work  of  havoc  at  their  leisure. 


496  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


GEORGE   HENRY   BOKER. 

George  Henry  Boker  was  born  in  Philadelphia  in  1823,  and  was  graduated  at  Princeton 
College,  N.  J.,  in  1842.  He  studied  law,  but  never  engaged  in  practice.  He  made  atrip 
to  Europe,  and  upon  his  return  settled  in  his  native  city,  where  he  has  since  resided.  In 
1847  he  published  a  volume,  entitled  The  Lesson  of  Life  and  other  Poems.  The  following 
year  he  published  Calaynos,  a  tragedy,  which  was  brought  out  upon  the  stage  in  London 
with  success.  His  second  tragedy,  Anne  Boleyn,  was  brought  out  not  long  after.  This 
was  followed  by  several  other  plays,  which  were  produced  upon  the  stage,  and  gave  the 
author  a  wide  reputation.  He  has  also  published  two  later  volumes :  War  Lyrics,  and 
Konigsmark,  the  Legend  of  the  Hounds  and  other  Poems.  His  early  poems  and  trage- 
dies have  been  collected  in  two  volumes,  entitled  Plays  and  Poems.  As  a  favorable  speci- 
men of  his  style  and  his  power  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  dramatic  sketch,  The  Podesta's 
Daughter.  He  was  greatly  interested  in  the  fortunes  of  the  late  civil  war,  and  showed,  in 
his  spirited  lyrics,  the  depth  and  fervency  of  his  patriotism. 

We  are  fully  sensible  that  the  selections  here  printed  may  not  be  the  best  expressions  of  his 
genius,  and  that  his  plays  probably  contain  his  finest  thoughts  ;  but  it  is  impossible  in  a  com- 
pilation like  this  to  present  any  extract  from  a  play  that  is  at  all  complete  in  itself. 

Mr.  Boker  has  lately  been  appointed  minister  to  Constantinople. 

"I   HAVE  A  COTTAGE." 

I  HAVE  a  cottage  where  the  sunbeams  lurk, 
Peeping  around  its  gables  all  day  long, 
Brimming  the  buttercups  until  they  drip 
With  molten  gold,  like  o'ercharged  crucibles. 
Here,  wondering  why  the  morning-glories  close 
Their  crumpled  edges  ere  the  dew  is  dry, 
Great  lilies  stand,  and  stretch  their  languid  buds 
In  the  full  blaze  of  noon,  until  its  heat 
Has  pierced  them  to  their  centres.     Here  the  rose 
Is  larger,  redder,  sweeter,  longer-lived, 
Less  thorny,  than  the  rose  of  other  lands. 

I  have  a  cottage  where  the  south  wind  comes, 

Cool  from  the  spicy  pines,  or  with  a  breath 

Of  the  mid-ocean  salt  upon  its  lips, 

And  a  low,  lulling,  dreamy  sound  of  waves, 

To  breathe  upon  me,  as  I  lie  along 

On  my  white  violets,  marvelling  at  the  bees 

That  toil  but  to  be  plundered,  or  the  mart 

Of  striving  men,  whose  bells  I  sometimes  hear, 

When  they  will  toss  their  brazen  throats  at  heaven, 

And  howl  to  vex  me.     But  the  town  is  far  ; 

And  all  its  noises,  ere  they  trouble  me, 


GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER.  497 

Must  take  a  convoy  of  the  scented  breeze, 

And  climb  the  hills,  and  cross  the  bloomy  dales, 

And  catch  a  whisper  in  the  swaying  grain, 

And  bear  unfaithful  echoes  from  the  wood, 

And  mix  with  birds,  and  streams,  and  fluttering  leaves, 

And  an  old  ballad  which  the  shepherd  hums, 

Straying  in  thought  behind  his  browsing  flock. 

I  have  a  cottage  where  the  wild  bee  comes 

To  hug  the  thyme,  and  woo  its  dainties  forth  ; 

Where  humming-birds,  plashed  with  the  rainbow's  dyes, 

Poise  on  their  whirring  wings  before  the  door, 

And  drain  my  honeysuckles  at  a  draught. 

Ah,  giddy  sensualist,  how  thy  blazing  throat 

Flashes  and  throbs  while  thou  dost  pillage  me 

Of  all  my  virgin  flowers  !     And  then,  away  — 

What  eye  may  follow  !     But  yon  constant  robin  : 

Spring,  summer,  winter,  still  the  same  clear  song 

At  morn  and  eve,  still  the  contented  hop, 

And  low,  sly  whistle  when  the  crumbs  are  thrown. 

Yet  he  is  jealous  of  my  tawny  thrush, 

And  drives  him  off,  ere  a  faint  symphony 

Ushers  the  carol  warming  in  his  breast. 

I  have  a  cottage  in  the  cloven  hills  ; 
Through  yonder  peaks  the  flow  of  sunlight  comes, 
Dragging  its  sluggish  tide  across  the  path 
Of  the  reluctant  stars,  which  silently 
Are  buried  in  it.     Through  yon  western  gap 
Day  ebbs  away,  leaving  a  margin  round 
Of  sky  and  cloud,  drowned  in  its  sinking  flood, 
Till  Venus  shimmers  through  the  rising  blue, 
And  lights  her  sisters  up.     Here  lie  the  moonbeams, 
Hour  after  hour,  becalmed  in  the  still  trees  ; 
Or  on  the  weltering  leaves  of  the  young  grass 
Rest  half  asleep,  rocked  by  some  errant  wind. 
Here  are  more  little  stars,  on  winter  nights, 
Than  sages  reckon  in  their  heaven  charts  ; 
For  the  brain  wanders,  and  the  dizzy  eye 
Aches  at  their  sum,  and  dulls,  and  winks  with  them. 
The  Northern  Lights  come  down  to  greet  me  here, 
32 


HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Playing  fantastic  tricks,  above  my  head, 

With  their  long  tongues  of  fire,  that  dart  and  catch, 

From  point  to  point,  across  the  firmament, 

As  if  the  face  of  heaven  were  passing  off 

In  low  combustion  ;  or  the  kindling  night 

Were  slowly  flaming  to  a  fatal  dawn, 

Wide-spread  and  sunless  as  the  day  of  doom. 

I  have  a  cottage  cowering  in  the  trees, 
And  seeming  to  shrink  lower  day  by  day. 
Sometimes  I  fancy  that  the  growing  boughs 
Have  dwarfed  my  dwelling  ;  but  the  solemn  oaks 
That  hang  above  my  roof  so  lovingly, 
They  too  have  shrunk.     I  know  not  how  it  is  : 
For  when  my  mother  led  me  by  the  hand 
Around  our  pale,  it  seemed  a  weary  walk  ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  sharp  roof  nestled  there 
Among  the  trees,  and  they  propped  heaven.     Alas  ! 
Who  leads  me  now  around  the  bushy  pale  ? 
Who  shows  the  bird's  nest  in  the  twilight  leaves  ? 
Who  catches  me  within  her  fair,  round  arms, 
When  autumn  shakes  the  acorns  on  our  roof 
To  startle  me  ?     I  know  not  how  it  is  : 
The  house  has  shrunk,  perhaps,  as  our  poor  hearts, 
When  they  both  broke  at  parting,  and  mine  closed 
Upon  a  memory,  shutting  out  the  world 
Like  a  sad  anchorite.  —  Ah,  that  gusty  morn  ! 
But  here  she  lived,  here  died,  and  so  will  I. 

I  have  a  cottage  —  murmur  if  ye  will, 
Ye  men  whose  lips  are  prison  doors  to  thoughts 
Born,  with  mysterious  struggles,  in  the  heart ; 
And,  maidens,  let  your  store  of  hoarded  smiles 
Break  from  their  dimples,  like  the  spreading  rings 
That  skim  a  lake,  when  some  stray  blossom  falls 
Warm  in  its  bosom.     Ah,  you  cannot  tell 
Why  violets  choose  not  a  neighboring  bank, 
Why  cowslips  blow  upon  the  selfsame  bed, 
Why  year  by  year  the  swallow  seeks  one  nest, 
Why  the  brown  wren  rebuilds  her  hairy  home. 
O,  sightless  cavillers,  you  do  not  know 


GEORGE    HENRY    BOKER.  499 

How  deep  roots  strike,  nor  with  what  tender  care 
The  soft  down  lining  warms  the  nest  within. 
Think  as  you  will,  murmur  and  smile  apace  — 
I  have  a  cottage  where  my  days  shall  close, 
Calm  as  the  setting  of  a  feeble  star. 


INVOCATION.  . 

0  COUNTRY,  bleeding  from  the  heart, 

If  these  poor  songs  can  touch  thy  woe, 
And  draw  thee  but  a  while  apart 
From  sorrow's  bitter  overflow, 

Then  not  in  vain 

This  feeble  strain 
About  the  common  air  shall  blow. 

As  David  stood  by  prostrate  Saul, 
So  wait  I  at  thy  sacred  feet : 

1  reverently  raise  thy  pall, 

To  see  thy  mighty  bosom  beat. 

I  would  not  wrong 

Thy  grief  with  song  ; 
I  would  but  utter  what  is  meet. 

Arise,  O  giant !  ho,  the  day 

Flows  hither  from  the  gates  of  light. 
The  dreams,  that  struck  thee  with  dismay, 
Were  shadows  of  distempered  night. 
'Tis  just  to  mourn 
What  thou  hast  borne, 
But  yet  the  future  has  its  right. 

A  glory,  greater  than  the  lot 

Foretold  by  prophets,  is  to  be ; 
A  fame  without  the  odious  blot 
Upon  thy  title  to  be  free,  — 
The  jeer  of  foes, 
The  woe  of  woes, 
God's  curse  and  sorrow  over  thee. 


5OO  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Above  the  nations  of  the  earth 

Erect  thee,  prouder  than  before  ! 
Consider  well  the  trial's  worth, 
And  let  the  passing  tempest  roar. 
It  spends  its  shock 
Upon  a  rock : 
Thou  shalt  outlive  a  thousand  more. 

Through  tears  and  blood  I  saw  a  gleam  ; 
Through  all  the  battle-smoke  it  shone  ; 
A  voice  I  heard  that  drowned  the  scream 
Of  widows  and  the  orphans'  moan  : 
An  awful  voice, 
That  cried,  "  Rejoice  !  " 
A  light  outbreaking  from  God's  throne. 


A  BATTLE   HYMN. 

GOD,  to  thee  we  humbly  bow, 

With  hand  unarmed  and  naked  brow ; 

Musket,  lance,  and  sheathed  sword 

At  thy  feet  we  lay,  O  Lord  ! 

Gone  is  all  the  soldier's  boast 

In  the  valor  of  the  host ; 

Kneeling  here,  we  do  our  most 

Of  ourselves  we  nothing  know  : 
Thou,  and  thou  alone,  canst  show, 
By  the  favor  of  thy  hand, 
Who  has  drawn  the  guilty  brand. 
If  our  foemen  have  the  right, 
Show  thy  judgment  in  our  sight       . 
Through  the  fortunes  of  the  fight ! 

If  our  cause  be  pure  and  just, 
Nerve  our  courage  with  thy  trust : 
Scatter,  in  thy  bitter  wrath, 
All  who  cross  the  nation's  path  : 
May  the  baffled  traitors  fly, 
As  the  vapors  from  the  sky 
When  thy  raging  winds  are  high  ! 


THOMAS    WENTWORTH    HIGGINSON.  501 

God  of  mercy,  some  must  fall 
In  thy  holy  cause.     Not  all 
Hope  to  sing  the  victor's  lay, 
When  the  sword  is  laid  away. 
Brief  will  be  the  prayers  then  said  ; 
Falling  at  thy  altar  dead, 
Take  the  sacrifice  instead. 

Now,  O  God,  once  more  we  rise, 
Marching  on  beneath  thy  eyes  ; 
And  we  draw  the  sacred  sword 
In  thy  name  and  at  thy  word. 
May  our  spirits  clearly  see 
Thee,  through  all  that  is  to  be, 
In  defeat  or  victory  ! 


THOMAS   WENTWORTH   HIGGINSON. 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  December  2»,  1823,  and 
was  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1841.  He  studied  theology  at  the  school  in  Cam- 
bridge, and  was  settled  as  pastor  of  the  First  Church  in  Newburyport  in  1847.  He  was 
also  pastor  of  the  Free  Church  in  Worcester  from  1852  to  1858.  He  was  an  ardent  friend 
of  the  anti-slavery  cause,  and  has  been  a  prominent  actor  in  the  various  progressive  move- 
ments of  the  last  twenty  years.  He  was  indicted,  in  company  with  Parker,  Phillips,  and 
others,  for  the  attempt  to  rescue  Anthony  Burns,  a  fugitive  slave,  from  the  custody  of  the 
United  States  officers.  He  was  very  active  in  the  work  of  planting  colonies  from  the  free 
states  in  Kansas.  Before  the  war  broke  out  he  had  left  the  clerical  profession  ;  and  believ- 
ing that  the  sword  was  needed  more  than  the  pen,  he  entered  the  military  service,  and  was 
appointed  colonel  of  the  first  regiment  of  black  troops  raised  in  South  Carolina.  He  saw 
some  active  service,  and,  after  being  wounded  at  an  engagement  on  the  Edisto  River,  was 
discharged  for  disability  in  October,  1864.  He  has  since  resided  at  Newport,  R.  I. 

His  ability  as  a  writer  was  first -generally  recognized  in  his  essays  contributed  to  the  early 
numbers  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  They  were  mostly  upon  out-door  life  and  athletic  sports, 
and  were  directed  strongly  against  the  prevailing  effeminacy  and  want  of  physical  energy 
among  clergymen  and  other  scholars.  If  there  is  an  order  of  muscular  Christians  in  America, 
Colonel  Higginson  is  its  chief  apostle.  These  essays  were  collected  in  1863,  with  the 
title  of  Out-Door  Papers.  There  are  few  volumes  in  our  time  that  have  so  many  exquisite 
passages  of  description,  so  much  masculine  thought,  and  such  a  hearty,  cheerful  tone.  We 
may  add  that,  in  the  purity  and  beauty  of  his  style,  Colonel  Higginson  is  surpassed  by  very 
few  living  writers.  Malbone,  an  Oldport  Romance,  reprinted  also  from  the  Atlantic, 
appeared  in  1869  :  Army  Life  in  a  Black  Regiment  In  1870:  Atlantic  Essays  in  1871.  He 
has  also  edited  the  Harvard  Memorial  Biographies,  in  two  volumes,  being  lives  of  the  Har- 
vard graduates  who  fell  in  the  late  war.  This  is  an  enduring  monument  of  his  patriotic 
feeling,  good  judgment,  and  literary  skill.  He  published  a  translation  of  Epictetus  in  1865. 
He  is  a  frequent  contributor  to  several  leading  periodicals,  particularly  the  Woman's  Jour 
naL  His  works  are  published  by  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co.,  Boston. 


$O2  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

[From  Out-Door  Papers.] 
MY   OUT-DOOR   STUDY. 

THE  noontide  of  the  summer  day  is  past,  when  all  Nature  slum- 
bers, and  when  the  ancients  feared  to  sing,  lest  the  great  god  Pan 
should  be  awakened.  Soft  changes,  the  gradual  shifting  of  every 
shadow  on  every  leaf,  begin  to  show  the  waning  hours.  Ineffectual 
thunder-storms  have  gathered  and  gone  by,  hopelessly  defeated. 
The  floating  bridge  is  trembling  and  resounding  beneath  the  pres- 
sure of  one  heavy  wagon,  and  the  quiet  fishermen  change  their  places 
to  avoid  the  tiny  ripple  that  glides  stealthily  to  their  feet  above  the 
half-submerged  planks.  Down  the  glimmering  lake  there  are  miles 
of  silence,  and  still  waters,  and  green  shores,  overhung  with  a  mul- 
titudinous and  scattered  fleet  of  purple  and  golden  clouds,  now  furl- 
ing their  idle  sails,  and  drifting  away  into  the  vast  harbor  of  the  south. 
Voices  of  birds,  hushed  first  by  noon  and  then  by  possibilities  of 
tempest,  cautiously  begin  once  more,  leading  on  the  infinite  melodies 
of  the  June  afternoon.  As  the  freshened  air  invites  them  forth,  so 
the  smooth  and  stainless  water  summons  us.  "  Put  your  hand  upon 
the  oar,"  says  Charon,  in  the  old  play,  to  Bacchus,  "  and  you  shall 
hear  the  sweetest  songs."  The  doors  of  the  boat-house  swing 
softly  open,  and  the  slender  wherry,  like  a  water-snake,  steals  silently 
in  the  wake  of  the  dispersing  clouds. 

The  woods  are  hazy,  as  if  the  warm  sunbeams  had  melted  in 
among  the  interstices  of  the  foliage,  and  spread  a  soft  film  through- 
out the  whole.  The  sky  seems  to  reflect  the  water,  and  the  water 
the  sky  ;  both  are  roseate  with  color,  both  are  darkened  with  clouds, 
and  between  them  both,  as  the  boat  recedes,  the  floating  bridge 
hangs  suspended,  with  its  motionless  fishermen  and  its  moving  team. 
The  wooded  islands  are  poised  upon  the  lake,  each  belted  with  a 
paler  tint  of  softer  wave.  The  air  seems  fine  and  palpitating ;  the 
drop  of  an  oar  in  a  distant  row-lock,  the  sound  of  a  hammer  on  a 
dismantled  boat,  pass  into  some  region  of  mist  and  shadows,  and 
form  a  metronome  for  delicious  dreams. 

Every  summer  I  launch  my  boat  to  seek  some  realm  of  enchant- 
ment beyond  all  the  sordidness  and  sorrow  of  earth,  and  never  yet 
did  I  fail  to  ripple  with  my  prow  at  least  the  outskirts  of  those 
magic  waters.  What  spell  has  fame  or  wealth  to  enrich  this  midday 
blessedness  with  a  joy  the  more  ?  Yonder  barefoot  boy,  as  he  drifts 
silently  in  his  punt  beneath  the  drooping  branches  of  yonder  vine- 
clad  bank,  has  a  bliss  which  no  Astor  can  buy  with  money,  no 


THOMAS    WENTWORTH    HJGGINSON.  503 

Seward  conquer  with  votes,  —  which  yet  is  no  monopoly  of  his, 
and  to  which  time  and  experience  only  add  a  more  subtile  and  con- 
scious charm.  The  rich  years  were  given  us  to  increase,  not  to  im- 
pair, these  cheap  felicities.  Sad  or  sinful  is  the  life  of  that  man  who 
finds  not  the  heavens  bluer  and  the  waves  more  musical  in  maturity 
than  in  childhood.  Time  is  a  severe  alembic  of  youthful  joys,  no 
doubt ;  we  exhaust  book  after  book,  and  leave  Shakespeare  un- 
opened ;  we  grow  fastidious  in  men  and  women  ;  all  the  rhetoric,  all 
the  logic,  we  fancy  we  have  heard  before  ;  we  have  seen  the  pic- 
tures, we  have  listened  to  the  symphonies  ;  but  what  has  been  done 
by  all  the  art  and  literature  of  the  world  towards  describing  one  sum- 
mer day  ?  The  most  exhausting  effort  brings  us  no  nearer  to  it  than 
to  the  blue  sky  which  is  its  dome  ;  our  words  are  shot  up  against  it 
like  arrows,  and  fall  back  helpless.  Literary  amateurs  go  the  tour 
of  the  globe  to  renew  their  stock  of  materials,  when  they  do  not  yet 
know  a  bird,  or  a  bee,  or  a  blossom  beside  their  homestead  door  ; 
and  in  the  hour  of  their  greatest  success  they  have  not  an  horizon  to 
their  life  so  large  as  that  of  yon  boy  in  his  punt.  All  that  is  pur- 
chasable in  the  capitals  of  the  world  is  not  to  be  weighed  in  com- 
parison with  the  simple  enjoyment  that  may  be  crowded  into  one 
hour  of  sunshine.  What  can  place  or  power  do  here  ?  "  Who  could 
be  before  me,  though  the  palace  of  Caesar  cracked  and  split  with 
emperors,  while  I,  sitting  in  silence  on  a  cliff  of  Rhodes,  watched 
the  sun  as  he  swung  his  golden  censer  athwart  the  heavens  ?  " 

[From  the  Same.] 
FROM   THE   PROCESSION    OF   THE   FLOWERS. 

BUT,  after  all,  the  fascination  of  summer  lies  not  in  any  details, 
however  perfect,  but  in  the  sense  of  total  wealth  which  summer 
gives.  Wholly  to  enjoy  this,  one  must  give  one's  self  passively  to 
it,  and  not  expect  to  reproduce  it  in  words.  We  strive  to  picture 
heaven,  when  we  are  barely  at  the  threshold  of  the  inconceivable 
beauty  of  earth.  Perhaps  the  truant  boy,  who  simply  bathes  him- 
self in  the  lake  and  then  basks  in  the  sunshine,  dimly  conscious  of 
the  exquisite  loveliness  around  him,  is  wiser,  because  humbler,  than 
is  he  who  with  presumptuous  phrases  tries  to  utter  it.  There  are 
multitudes  of  moments  when  the  atmosphere  is  so  surcharged  with 
luxury  that  every  pore  of  the  body  becomes  an  ample  gate  for  sen- 
sation to  flow  in,  and  one  has  simply  to  sit  still  and  be  filled.  In 
after  years  the  memory  of  books  seems  barren  and  vanishing  com- 


504      HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

pared  with  the  immortal  bequest  of  hours  like  these.  Other  sources 
of  illumination  seem  cisterns  only;  these  are  fountains.  They  may 
not  increase  the  mere  quantity  of  available  thought,  but  they  impart 
to  it  a  quality  which  is  priceless.  No  man  can  measure  what  a  sin- 
gle hour  with  Nature  may  have  contributed  to  the  moulding  of  his 
mind.  The  influence  is  self-renewing,  and  if  for  a  time  it  baffles 
expression  by  reason  of  its  fineness,  so  much  the  better  in  the  end. 

The  soul  is  like  a  musical  instrument :  it  is  not  enough  that  it  be 
framed  for  the  very  most  delicate  vibration,  but  it  must  vibrate  long 
and  often  before  the  fibres  grow  mellow  to  the  finest  waves  of  sym- 
pathy. I  perceive  that  in  the  veery's  carolling,  the  clover's  scent, 
the  glistening  of  the  water,  the  waving  wings  of  butterflies,  the  sun- 
set tints,  the  floating  clouds,  there  are  attainable  infinitely  more 
subtile  modulations  of  delight  than  I  can  yet  reach  the  sensibility 
to  discriminate,  much  less  describe.  If,  in  the  simple  process  of 
writing,  one  could  physically  impart  to  this  page  the  fragrance  of 
this  spray  of  azalea  beside  me,  what  a  wonder  would  it  seem  !  — 
and  yet  one  ought  to  be  able,  by  the  mere  use  of  language,  to 
supply  to  every  reader  the  total  of  that  white,  honeyed,  trailing 
sweetness  which  summer  insects  haunt,  and  the  Spirit  of  the 
Universe  loves.  The  defect  is  not  in  language,  but  in  men. 
There  is  no  conceivable  beauty  of  blossoms  so  beautiful  as 
words,  —  none  so  graceful,  none  so  perfumed.  It  is  possible  to 
dream  of  combinations  of  syllables  so  delicious  that  all  the  dawn- 
ing and  decay  of  summer  cannot  rival  their  perfection,  nor  winter's 
stainless  white  and  azure  match  their  purity  and  their  charm.  To 
write  them,  were  it  possible,  would  be  to  take  rank  with  Nature  ; 
nor  is  there  any  other  method,  even  by  music,  for  human  art  to 
reach  so  high. 


GEORGE   WILLIAM   CURTIS. 

George  William  Curtis  was  born  in  Providence,  R.  I.,  February  24,  1824.  He  received 
his  early  education  in  a  private  school  at  Jamaica  Plain,  Mass.  When  he  was  fifteen  years 
old  his  father  removed  to  New  York,  and  he  was  placed  in  the  counting-room  of  a  mer- 
chant, but  remained  only  a  year.  In  1842  he  went  to  Brook  Farm,  in  West  Roxbury,  and 
remained  a  year  and  a  half,  devoting  his  time  to  study  and  to  agricultural  labor.  After- 
wards, being  attracted  by  the  intellectual  society  of  Concord,  Mass.,  he  went  there  and 
lived  with  a  farmer  eighteen  months,  still  pursuing  his  studies,  and  doing  regular  work 
upon  the  farm.  In  1846  he  went  to  Europe,  and  spent  some  years  in  study  and  travel, 
extending  his  tour  to  Egypt  and  Syria.  He  returned  to  the  United  States  in  1850,  and 
soon  after  published  his  first  work,  Nile  Notes  of  a  Howadji.  He  became  connected  with 
the  New  York  Tribune,  aiid  wrote  letters  for  it  from  various  watering-places,  which  wers 


GEORGE   WILLIAM   CURTIS.  505 

afterwards  collected  in  a  volume,  entitled  Lotos- Eating..  His  second  book,  The  Howadji 
in  Syria,  was  published  in  1852.  Putnam's  Monthly  was  established  in  the  same  year,  and 
Mr.  Curtis  was  one  of  the  original  editors.  For  this  magazine  he  wrote  a  number  of 
sketches  and  essays,  some  of  which  were  afterwards  published  with  the  title  Prue  and  I. 
In  this  work  Mr,  Curtis  is  seen  at  his  best,  in  our  judgment  A  pretty  rill  of  a  story  runs 
through  it  like  a  musical  little  brook  through  a  romantic  valley.  The  pervading  sentiment 
is  tender  and  pure.  The  lovely  young  matron,  "Prue,"  is  the  sharer  in  the  thoughts  and 
the  reminiscences  of  the  story-teller,  as  well  as  in  his  affection  and  measureless  content. 
The  style  is  as  unpretentious  and  as  lovely  as  the  story.  If  it  were  more  musical  its  melody 
would  glide  into  verse.  The  sketches  are  full  of  the  best  fruits  of  reading  and  travel,  and 
preserve  for  us  those  picturesque  associations  of  the  old  world  for  which  we  look  in  the 
note  books  of  tourists  in  vain. 

The  Potiphar  Papers  is  the  title  of  a  volume  of  satirical  sketches  of  fashionable  society, 
published  originally  in  Putnam's  Monthly.  Mr.  Curtis  also  published  a  novel  called  Trumps, 
which  was  vivacious  and  elegant  in  style,  but  lacking  in  the  strong  dramatic  interest  which 
modern  readers  of  fiction  require. 

Putnam's  Monthly  was  an  excellent  and  well-conducted  magazine,  but  it  was  not  very 
successful  in  a  business  point  of  view.  After  the  failure  of  the  original  publisher,  it  was  con- 
tinued by  Messrs.  Dix  &  Edwards,  in  which  firm  Mr.  Curtis  was  a  silent  partner.  In  1857 
the  house  became  insolvent,  and  in  the  endeavor  to  save  the  creditors  from  loss  he  sank  his 
entire  private  fortune. 

He  became  a  public  lecturer  in  1853,  and  has  been  eminently  successful  in  this  field.  His 
clear  thought,  high  moral  purpose,  varied  experience,  and  glowing  style,  aided  by  his  attrac- 
tive presence  and  finely  modulated  voice,  have  combined  to  make  him  one  of  the  ablest  and 
most  popular  of  public  speakers.  In  the  presidential  campaigns  of  1856  and  1860  he  was  a 
prominent  advocate  of  the  Republican  party. 

He  has  for  a  long  time  been  a  contributor  to  Harper's  Monthly,  in  which  his  brief  essays, 
under  the  head  of  The  Easy  Chair,  have  been  greatly  admired.  Since  1857  he  has  been  the 
editor  of  Harper's  Weekly,  and  lias  probably  been  mainly  instrumental  in  giving  to  that 
paper  its  strong  positive  character. 

[From  Prue  and  I.] 
SEA   FROM   SHORE. 

I  HAVE  read  in  some  book  of  travels  that  certain  tribes  of  Arabs 
have  no  name  for  the  ocean,  and  that  when  they  came  to  the 
shore  for  the  first  time,  they  asked,  with  eager  sadness,  as  if  pene- 
trated by  the  conviction  of  a  superior  beauty,  "  What  is  that  desert 
of  water,  more  beautiful  than  the  land  ?  "  And  in  the  translations 
of  German  stories,  which  Adoniram  and  the  other  children  read, 
and  into  which  I  occasionally  look  in  the  evening  when  they  are 
gone  to  bed,  —  for  I  like  to  know  what  interests  my  children,  —  I 
find  that  the  Germans,  who  do  not  live  near  the  sea,  love  the  fairy 
lore  of  water,  and  tell  the  sweet  stories  of  Undine  and  Melusina,  as  if 
they  had  especial  charm  for  them,  because  their  country  is  inland. 

We  who  know  the  sea  have  less  fairy  feeling  about  it,  but  our 
realities  are  romance.  My  earliest  remembrances  are  of  a  long 
range  of  old,  half-dilapidated  stores,  —  red  brick  stores,  with  steep 
wooden  roofs,  and  stone  window-frames  and  door-frames,  which 


506       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

stood  upon  docks  built  as  if  for  immense  trade  with  all  quarters 
of  the  globe. 

Generally  there  were  only  a  few  sloops  moored  to  the  tremen- 
dous posts,  which  I  fancied  could  easily  hold  fast  a  , Spanish  Ar- 
mada in  a  tropical  hurricane.  But  sometimes  a  great  ship,  an  East 
Indiaman,  with  rusty,  seamed,  blistered  sides  and  dingy  sails,  came 
slowly  moving  up  the  harbor,  with  an  air  of  indolent  self-impor- 
tance and  consciousness  of  superiority,  which  inspired  me  with 
profound  respect.  If  the  ship  had  ever  chanced  to  run  down  a 
row-boat,  or  a  sloop,  or  any  specimen  of  smaller  craft,  I  should 
only  have  wondered  at  the  temerity  of  any  floating  thing  in  crossing 
the  path  of  such  supreme  majesty.  The  ship  was  leisurely  chained 
and  cabled  to  the  old  dock,  and  then  came  the  disembowelling. 

How  the  stately  monster  had  been  fattening  upon  foreign  spoils  ! 
How  it  had  gorged  itself  (such  galleons  did  never  seem  to  me  of 
the  feminine  gender)  with  the  luscious  treasures  of  the  tropics  !  It 
had  lain  its  lazy  length  along  the  shores  of  China,  and  sucked  in 
whole  flowery  harvests  of  tea.  The  Brazilian  sun  flashed  through 
the  strong  wicker  prisons,  bursting  with  bananas  and  nectarian 
fruits  that  eschew  the  temperate  zone.  Steams  of  camphor,  of  san- 
dal wood,  arose  from  the  hold.  Sailors,  chanting  cabalistic  strains, 
that  had  to  my  ear  a  shrill  and  monotonous  pathos,  like  the  uniform 
rising  and  falling  of  an  autumn  wind,  turned  cranks  that  lifted  the 
bales,  and  boxes,  and  crates,  and  swung  them  ashore. 

But,  to  my  mind,  the  spell  of  their  singing  raised  the  fragrant 
freight,  and  not  the  crank.  Madagascar  and  Ceylon  appeared  at  the 
mystic  bidding  of  the  song.  The  placid  sunshine  of  the  docks  was 
perfumed  with  India.  The  universal  calm  of  southern  seas  poured 
from  the  bosom  of  the  ship  over  the  quiet,  decaying  old  northern  port. 

Long  after  the  confusion  of  unloading  was  over,  and  the  ship  lay 
as  if  all  voyages  were  ended,  I  dared  to  creep  timorously  along  the 
edge  of  the  dock,  and,  at  great  risk  of  falling  in  the  black  water  of 
its  huge  shadow,  I  placed  my  hand  upon  the  hot  hulk,  and  so  estab- 
lished a  mystic  and  exquisite  connection  with  Pacific  islands,  with 
palm  groves,  and  all  the  passionate  beauties  they  embower ;  with 
jungles,  Bengal  tigers,  pepper,  and  the  crushed  feet  of  Chinese 
fairies.  I  touched  Asia,  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and  the  Happy 
Islands.  I  would  not  believe  that  the  heat  I  felt  was  of  our  northern 
sun  ;  to  my  finer  sympathy,  it  burned  with  equatorial  fervors. 

The  freight  was  piled  in  the  old  stores.  I  believe  that  many  of 
them  remain,  but  they  have  lost  their  character.  When  I  knew 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    CURTIS.  5O/ 

them,  not  only  was  I  younger,  but  partial  decay  had  overtaken  the 
town  ;  at  least  the  bulk  of  its  India  trade  had  shifted  to  New  York 
and  Boston.  But  the  appliances  remained.  There  was  no  throng 
of  busy  traffickers,  and  after  school,  in  the  afternoon,  I  strolled  by 
and  gazed  into  the  solemn  interiors. 

Silence  reigned  within,  —  silence,  dimness,  and  piles  of  foreign 
treasure.  Vast  coils  of  cable,  like  tame  boa-constrictors,  served  as 
seats  for  men  with  large  stomachs,  and  heavy  watch-seals,  and  nan- 
keen trousers,  who  sat  looking  out  of  the  door  towards  the  ships,  with 
little  other  sign  of  life  than  an  occasional  low  talking,  as  if  in  their 
sleep.  Huge  hogsheads  perspiring  brown  sugar  and  oozing  slow 
molasses,  as  if  nothing  tropical  could  keep  within  bounds,  but  must 
continually  expand,  and  exude,  and  overflow,  stood  against  the  walls, 
and  had  an  architectural  significance,  for  they  darkly  reminded  me 
of  Egyptian  prints,  and,  in  the  duskiness  of  the  low-vaulted  store, 
seemed  cyclopean  columns  incomplete.  Strange  festoons  and  heaps 
of  bags,  square  piles  of  square  boxes  cased  in  mats,  bales  of  airy 
summer  stuffs,  which,  even  in  winter,  scoffed  at  cold,  and  shamed  it 
by  audacious  assumption  of  eternal  sun,  little  specimen  boxes  of 
precious  dyes,  that  even  now  shine  through  my  memory,  like  old 
Venetian  schools  unpainted,  —  these  were  all  there  in  rich  con- 
fusion. 

The  stores  had  a  twilight  of  dimness  ;  the  air  was  spicy  with  min- 
gled odors.  I  liked  to  look  suddenly  in  from  the  glare  of  sunlight 
outside,  and  then  the  cool,  sweet  dimness  was  like  the  palpable 
breath  of  the  far  off  island-groves  ;  and  if  only  some  parrot  or  macaw 
hung  within,  would  flaunt  with  glistening  plumage  in  his  cage,  and 
as  the  gay  hue  flashed  in  a  chance  sunbeam,  call  in  his  hard,  shrill 
voice,  as  if  thrusting  sharp  sounds  upon  a  glistening  wire  from  out 
that  grateful  gloom,  then  the  enchantment  was  complete,  and,  with- 
out moving,  I  was  circumnavigating  the  globe. 


[From  Titbottom's  Spectacles.  —  In  the  Same.] 
GRANDFATHER   GAZES   AT   THE   SEA. 

MY  grandfather  lived  upon  one  of  the  small  islands,  —  St.  Kitts, 
perhaps,  —  and  his  domain  extended  to  the  sea.  His  house,  a  ram- 
bling West  Indian  mansion,  was  surrounded  with  deep,  spacious 
piazzas,  covered  with  luxurious  lounges,  among  which  one  capacious 
chair  was  his  peculiar  seat.  They  tell  me  he  used  sometimes  to  sit 


508       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

there  for  the  whole  day,  his  great,  soft  brown  eyes  fastened  upon  the 
sea,  watching  the  specks  of  sails  that  flashed  upon  the  horizon,  while 
the  evanescent  expressions  chased  each  other  over  his  placid  face  as 
if  it  reflected  the  calm  and  changing  sea  before  him. 

His  morning  costume  was  an  ample  dressing-gown  of  gorgeously- 
flowered  silk,  and  his  morning  was  very  apt  to  last  all  day.  He 
rarely  read  ;  but  he  would  pace  the  great  piazza  for  hours,  with  his 
hands  buried  in  the  pockets  of  his  dressing-gown,  and  an  air  of  sweet 
reverie,  which  any  book  must  be  a  very  entertaining  one  to  pro- 
duce. .  .  . 

To  a  stranger,  life  upon  those  little  islands  is  uniform,  even  to 
weariness.  But  the  old  native  dons,  like  my  grandfather,  ripen  in 
the  prolonged  sunshine,  like  the  turtle  upon  the  Bahama  banks,  nor 
know  of  existence  more  desirable.  Life  in  the  tropics  I  take  to  be 
a  placid  torpidity. 

During  the  long,  warm  mornings  of  nearly  half  a  century,  my 
grandfather  Titbottom  had  sat  in  his  dressing-gown,  and  gazed  at 
the  sea.  But  one  calm  June  day,  as  he  slowly  paced  the  piazza  after 
breakfast,  his  dreamy  glance  was  arrested  by  a  little  vessel,  evidently 
nearing  the  shore.  He  called  for  his  spy-glass,  and,  surveying  the 
craft,  saw  that  she  came  from  the  neighboring  island.  She  glided 
smoothly,  slowly,  over  the  summer  sea.  The  warm  morning  air  was 
sweet  with  perfumes,  and  silent  with  heat.  The  sea  sparkled  lan- 
guidly, and  the  brilliant  blue  sky  hung  cloudlessly  over.  Scores  of 
little  island  vessels  had  my  grandfather  seen  coming  over  the  horizon, 
and  cast  anchor  in  the  port.  Hundreds  of  summer  mornings  had 
the  white  sails  flashed  and  faded,  like  vague  faces  through  forgotten 
dreams.  But  this  time  he  laid  down  the  spy-glass,  and  leaned  against 
a  column  of  the  piazza,  and  watched  the  vessel  with  an  intentness 
that  he  could  not  explain.  She  came  nearer  and  nearer,  a  graceful 
spectre  in  the  dazzling  morning. 

"  Decidedly,  I  must  step  down  and  see  about  that  vessel,"  said 
my  grandfather  Titbottom. 

He  gathered  his  ample  dressing-gown  about  him,  and  stepped 
from  the  piazza,  with  no  other  protection  from  the  sun  than  the  little 
smoking-cap  upon  his  head.  His  face  wore  a  calm,  beaming  smile, 
as  if  he  loved  the  whole  world.  He  was  not  an  old  man,  but  there 
was  almost  a  patriarchal  pathos  in  his  expression  as  he  sauntered 
along  in  the  sunshine  towards  the  shore.  A  group  of  idle  gazers 
was  collected  to  watch  the  arrival.  The  little  vessel  furled  her  sails, 
and  drifted  slowly  landward,  and,  as  she  was  of  very  light  draft,  she 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND.  509 

came  close  to  the  shelving  shore.  A  long  plank  was  put  out  from 
her  side,  and  the  debarkation  commenced. 

My  grandfather  Titbottom  stood  looking  on,  to  see  the  passengers 
as  they  passed.  There  were  but  a  few  of  them,  and  mostly  traders 
from  the  neighboring  island.  But  suddenly  the  face  of  a  young  girl 
appeared  over  the  side  of  the  vessel,  and  she  stepped  upon  the  plank 
to  descend.  My  grandfather  Titbottom  instantly  advanced,  and, 
moving  briskly,  reached  the  top  of  the  plank  at  the  same  moment, 
and  with  the  old  tassel  of  his  cap  flashing  in  the  sun,  and  one  hand 
in  the  pocket  of  his  dressing-gown,  with  the  other  he  handed  the 
young  lady  carefully  down  the  plank.  That  young  lady  was  after- 
wards my  grandmother  Titbottom. 

For  over  the  gleaming  sea,  which  he  had  watched  so  long,  and 
which  seemed  thus  to  reward  his  patient  gaze,  came  his  bride  that 
sunny  morning. 

"  Of  course  we  are  happy,"  he  used  to  say  to  her,  after  they  were 
married  ;  "  for  you  are  the  gift  of  the  sun  I  have  loved  so  long  and 
so  well."  And  my  grandfather  Titbottom  would  lay  his  hand  so 
tenderly  upon  the  golden  hair  of  his  young  bride,  that  you  could 
fancy  him  a  devout  Parsee,  caressing  sunbeams. 


CHARLES   GODFREY   LELAND. 

Charles  Godfrey  Leland  was  born  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia,  August  15,  1824,  and  was 
graduated  at  Princeton  College,  N.  J.,  in  1845.  He  afterwards  studied  at  the  Universities 
of  Heidelberg,  Munich,  and  Paris.  He  studied  law  on  his  return,  and  was  admitted  to  the 
bar,  but  never  practised  the  profession.  He  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Knicker- 
bocker Magazine  and  other  periodicals.  He  published  The  Poetry  and  Mystery  of  Dreams 
in  1855  ;  Meister  Karl's  Sketch  Book  in  1856.  He  also  translated  Pictures  of  Travel  from 
the  German  of  Heinrich  Heine,  and  a  Book  of  Songs  by  the  same  author.  He  wrote  some 
years  ago  a  ballad  in  the  broken  English  of  a  Pennsylvania  German,  of  which  the  first 

line  was,  — 

"  Hans  Breitmann  gif  a  barty." 

It  was  an  odd  and  taking  burlesque,  and  it  had  (with  a  great  deal  of  nonsense)  some  fair 
hits  at  the  German  tendency  to  sentiment,  closing  in  a  state  of  metaphysical  cloudiness  that 
was  exceedingly  droll.  The  success  of  this  bit  of  fun  led  the  author  to  follow  up  the  vein  he 
had  struck,  and  a  series  of  ballads  in  which  Hans  Breitmann  figured  were  speedily  pub- 
lished. Those  in  which  the  hero  was  represented  as  a  "bummer  "  following  the  army  of 
General  Sherman  on  his  march  to  the  sea  were  quite  elaborate,  and  nearly  as  amusing  as 
their  prototype.  To  this  happy  hit  the  author  mainly  owes  the  extended  reputation  he  now 
enjoys.  But  note  the  injustice  or  the  stupidity  of  the  reading  public  !  Mr.  Leland  had 
years  before  written  a  striking  but  grotesque  book  of  travel,  full  of  curious  learning,  showing 
keen  observation,  fresh  sensibilities,  and  unfailing  humor.  This  was  Meister  Karl's  Sketch 
Book,  already  mentioned.  It  was  remembered  pleasantly  by  all  scholars,  but  not  greatly 


5IO       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

successful  with  the  general  public.  Now  that  the  Breitmaun  Ballads  have  made  the  author 
known  to  a  wider  circle,  a  new  edition  of  Meister  Karl,  with  important  changes  and  addi- 
tions, has  been  published  in  a  handsome  form. 

Mr.  Leland's  translations  are  faithful,  spirited,  and  free  in  movement,  which  is  high  praise 
when  it  is  remembered  that  Heine's  prose  and  poetry  both  are  very  difficult  to  render  into 
English  without  disenchanting  them.  He  now  resides  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

[From  Meister  Karl's  Sketch  Book] 
NUREMBERG. 

I  KNOW  not  how  often  I  have  had  occasion,  during  my  life,  when 
speaking  of  Romanesque  or  Gothic  objects,  to  employ  such  adjec- 
tives as  "odd,"  "quaint,"  "weird,"  "strange,"  "wild,"  "freakish," 
"  antique,"  and  "  irregular  ;  "  but  I  am  very  certain  that  if  they  could 
be  concentrated  or  monogrammatized  in  a  single  word,  it  would  be 
exactly  the  one  needed  to  describe  the  rare  old  town  of  Nuremberg. 
There  is  a  picturesque  disorder  —  a  lyrical  confusion  —  about  the 
entire  place,  which  is  perfectly  irresistible.  Turrets  shoot  up  in  all 
sorts  of  ways,  on  all  sorts  of  occasions,  upon  all  sorts  of  houses  ; 
and  little  boxes,  with  delicate  Gothic  windows,  cling  to  their  sides 
and  to  one  another  like  barnacles  to  a  ship  ;  while  the  houses  them- 
selves are  turned  around  and  about  in  so  many  positions,  that  you 
wonder  that  a  few  are  not  upside  down,  or  lying  on  their  sides,  by 
way  of  completing  the  original  arrangement  of  no  arrangement  at 
all.  It  always  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  buildings  in  Nuremberg  had, 
like  the  furniture  in  Irving's  tale,  been  indulging  over  night  in  a 
very  irregular  dance,  and  suddenly  stopped  in  the  most  complicated 
part  of  a  confusion  worse  confounded.  Galleries,  'quaint  staircases, 
and  towers,  with  projecting  upper  stories,  as  well  as  eccentric  chim- 
neys, demented  doorways,  insane  weather-vanes,  and  highly  original 
steeples,  form  the  most  commonplace  materials  in  building ;  and  it 
has  more  than  once  occurred  to  me  that  the  architects  of  this  city, 
even  at  the  present  day,  must  have  imbibed  their  principles,  not 
from  the  lecture-room,  but  from  the  most  remarkable  inspirations  of 
some  romantic  scene-painter.  During  the  last  two  centuries  men 
appear  to  have  striven,  with  a  most  uncommendable  zeal,  all  over 
Christendom,  to  root  out  and  extirpate  every  trace  of  the  Gothic 
In  Nuremberg  alone  they  have  religiously  preserved  what  little  they 
originally  had  in  domestic  architecture,  and  added  to  it  (of  late  years 
especially),  with  so  much  earnestness,  that  Monsieur  Fartoul.  after 
declaring  that  the  private  houses  of  this  city  exhibit  few  or  no  traces 
of  ancient  Gothicism,  adds,  "  But,  recently,  they  scatter  pointed 
arches  in  their  facades,  and  put  them  even  into  dormer  windows,  to 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND.  5 1  I 

such  an  extent  that,  if  you  should  chance  to  visit  Nuremberg  ten 
years  hence,  you  will  find  the  Gothic  everywhere,  and  perhaps  feel 
inclined  to  accuse  me  of  indulging  in  false  assertions."  .  .  . 

Nuremberg,  like  Avignon,  is  one  of  the  very  few  cities  which  have 
retained  in  an  almost  perfect  state  the  feudal  walls  and  turrets  with 
which  they  were  invested  by  the  middle  ages.  At  regular  intervals 
along  these  walls  occur  little  towers,  for  their  defence,  reminding 
one  of  beads  strung  on  a  rosary  ;  the  great  watch-tower  at  the  gate, 
with  its  projecting  machicolation,  forming  the  pendent  cross,  the 
whole  serving  to  guard  the  town  within  from  the  dangers  of  war, 
even  as  the  rosary  protects  the  city  of  Mansoul  from  the  attacks  of 
Sin  and  Death  —  though,  sooth  to  say,  since  the  invention  of  gun- 
powder and  the  Reformation,  both  the  one  and  the  other  appear  to 
have  lost  much  of  their  former  efficacy.  Directly  through  the  centre 
of  the  town  runs  a  small  stream,  called  the  Pegnitz,  "  dividing  the 
town  into  two  nearly  equal  halves,  named  after  the  two  great 
churches  situated  within  them  ;  the  northern  being  termed  St. 
Sebald's,  and  the  southern,  St.  Lawrence's,  side." 

In  the  northern  part  of  the  division  of  St.  Sebaldus  rises  a  high 
hill,  formed  at  the  summit  of  vast  rocks,  on  which  is  situated  the 
ancient  Reicheveste,  or  Imperial  Castle,  whose  origin  is  fairly  lost 
in  the  dark  old  days  of  Heathenesse.  From  it  the  traveller  can 
obtain  an  admirable  view  of  the  romantic  town  below.  In  regarding 
it,  I  was  irresistibly  reminded  of  the  remarkable  resemblance  exist- 
ing between  most  of  its  buildings  and  the  children's  toys  manufac- 
tured by  the  ingenious  artisans  of  Nuremberg  and  its  vicinity.  In 
one  squab  little  mansion,  capped  with  peaked  tower  and  eye-like 
windows,  I  distinctly  recognized  the  original  model  of  a  fascinating 
little  vermilion-colored  edifice  which  had,  long  years  ago,  well  nigh 
thrown  me  into  a  convulsion  of  delight  when  first  extracted,  one 
Christmas  morning,  from  the  Krisskingle  stocking  ;  while  a  circular 
building  of  modern  date,  with  a  primrose  roof,  had  evidently  been 
formed  after  the  same  model  as  a  certain  "round  tower  of  other 
days  "  with  which  I  had  whilom  delighted  my  juvenile  optics.  Well 
do  I  remember  that  "jolly  round  house,"  whose  door  on  opening 
displayed  to  the  astonished  vision  a  wooden  young  lady  with  a  very 
short  waist,  holding  over  her  bonnetless  head,  with  commendable 
perpendicularity,  an  opened  parasol ;  while  by  her  side  an  aged  but 
(to  judge  from  a  red  feather  which  grew  from  the  centre  of  her  head) 
apparently  respectable  female  was  busily  engaged  in  roasting  a 
goose  at  a  fire,  consisting  of  three  glowing  strips  of  tinsel.  It  was 


512  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

a  mooted  question  with  Lady  Bulwer,  as  to  whether  Shakespeare  was 
born  to  write  for  Charles  Kean,  or  Charles  Kean  to  act  Shakespeare  ; 
and  I  for  my  part  am  unable  to  decide  whether  the  Dutch  toy- 
makers  of  Nuremberg  obtained  their  designs  from  its  architects,  or 
whether  the  architects  copy  after  their  toys. 


ADELINE   D.   T.   WHITNEY. 

Adeline  D.  T  Whitney,  daughter  of  the  late  Enoch  Train,  was  born  in  Boston,  Septem- 
ber 15,  1824,  was  married  in  the  year  1843  to  Mr.  Seth  D.  Whitney,  and  has  since  resided 
in  Milton,  Mass.  She  published  a  poem,  entitled  Footsteps  on  the  Seas,  in  1857  •  Mother 
Goose  for  Grown  Folks  in  1859 ;  Boys  at  Chequasset  in  1862;  Faith  Gartney's  Girlhood 
in  1863;  The  Gayworthys  in  1865;  A  Summer  in  Leslie  Goldthwaite's  Life  in  1866; 
Patience  Strong's  Outings  in  1868  ;  Hitherto  in  1869  ;  Real  Folks  in  1872. 

Mrs.  Whitney's  first  works  in  prose  were  written  for  young  people,  but,  as  often  happens 
with  meritorious  stories  of  that  class,  the  elders  also  found  them  entertaining.  Her  novels 
seem  to  have  grown  up  with  her  youthful  characters,  and  have  steadily  increased  in  popular- 
ity. Their  success  is  mainly  owing,  as  we  think,  to  their  excellent  moral  qualities,  their 
freedom  from  morbid  sentiment,  and  the  cheerful  and  practical  views  of  life  and  lessons  of 
duty  they  present  The  scenes  and  characters  in  her  book  are  well  discriminated,  and  the 
dialogues  are  generally  spirited  and  suggestive.  The  style  of  writing,  however,  is  faulty 
at  times,  owing  to  a  choice  of  words  that  tend  neither  to  rhetorical  correctness  nor  to  natural 
ease  of  expression.  Of  the  sincerity,  the  noble  instincts,  the  womanly  refinement  manifested 
in  such  novels  as  Hitherto  and  The  Gayworthys,  too  much  cannot  be  said.  In  the  art  of 
construction,  too,  the  author  shows  no  common  skill  ;  and  (what  is  the  first,  last,  and  only 
indispensable  requisite)  she  has  the  power  of  making  her  stories  interesting  from  the  be- 
ginning. With  this  power  and  this  experience  occasional  blemishes  of  style  look  very  trivial ; 
but  elderly  and  friendly  critics,  who  no  longer  read  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  story,  wish 
they  could  avoid  seeing  them. 

[From  The  Gayworthys.] 
ODORS   OF  SANCTITY. 

SUNDAY  came.  The  old  meeting-house  was  full  of  its  Sabbath 
fragrance.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  Did  you  ever  sit  —  a  great 
while  ago  it  must  have  been,  to  be  sure  —  in  one  of  those  family 
enclosures  in  an  old-fashioned  country  church,  whose  space  is  railed 
off  in  roomy  squares,  and  smell  the  mingled  incense  that  goes  up, 
on  a  summer  day,  with  the  prayers  and  praises  ?  the  tender  aroma 
of  fresh  flowers,  held  here  and  there  in  a  hand  that  has  gathered 
them  just  the  last  thing  at  home  or  on  the  way  ;  the  odor  of  aromat- 
ics  —  of  peppermints,  perhaps,  or  nibbled  cloves;  the  lavender  and 
musk  that  breathe  faintly  forth  from  the  best  laces,  muslins,  and 
ribbons  ;  to  say  nothing  of  whiffs,  now  and  then,  that  betray  spice- 
cake,  and  cimbals,  and  sage-cheese,  stowed  away  carefully  in 
sanctuary  cupboards,  under  the  hinge-seats,  until  the  "  nooning  "  ? 


ADELINE    D.    T.    WHITNEY.  513 

Whatever  you  may  think,  there  was  nothing  disagreeable  about  it  — 
nothing  even  of  coarseness  or  desecration  —  to  long-accustomed 
nostrils,  it  was  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  Lord's  Day ;  and  the 
life-long,  subtile  association  helped  the  people,  doubtless,  even  in 
their  prayers. 

Little  Sarah  Gair  found  it  all  very  delightful,  contrasted  with  city 
church-going,  where  people  shove  themselves  into  narrow  crannies, 
and  sit  with  their  knees  against  one  board  and  their  backs  against 
another — stuck  in  rows,  like  knives  in  a  knife-box  —  compressing 
the  body,  by  way  of  expanding  the  soul.  There  was  nothing  Say 
liked  better  than  to  go  to  meeting  in  Hilbury ;  to  sit  in  the  corner, 
on  the  broad  window-seat  that  came  in  so  as  to  form  a  commodious 
place  for  two,  and  where  Gershom  was  usually  her  companion  ;  to 
listen  to  the  full-voiced  village  choir,  and  look  up  with  a  sort  of 
childish  awe  at  the  row  of  men  and  maidens  who  filled  the  "singing- 
seats,"  and  bore  part  in  the  solemn  service  of  praise  ;  to  glance  from 
group  to  group  of  the  crowded  congregation,  and,  when  tired  of 
bonnets  and  faces  within,  to  turn  eyes  and  thoughts  outward,  where 
the  stone  slabs  were  planted  thickly,  marking  the  more  solemn  con- 
gregation of  the  dead ;  to  walk  round,  quietly,  from  pew  to  pew  in 
the  nooning,  or  to  go  with  aunt  Rebecca  into  the  churchyard,  and 
read  the  names,  —  it  didn't  seem  a  sad,  but  rather  a  pleasant  and 
beautiful  thing,  to  be  lying  there,  where  neighbors  and  friends  came 
up  and  walked  meekly,  and  talked  gently,  among  the  green  graves,  — 
or  to  go  with  aunt  Joanna  to  a  neighbor's  house,  and  eat  cimbals, 
and  hear  the  great  girls  talk,  which  was  pretty  much  all  the  little 
girls  could  do  on  Sunday  ;  and  as  for  the  incense  we  were  speaking 
of,  Say  always  complained  to  her  mother,  when  she  got  back  to 
Selport,  that  it  "didn't  ever  smell  like  Sunday  there." 


COUNTRY   SOUNDS. 

SHE  woke  there,  this  bright  spring  morning,  in  the  old  "red 
room."  She  lay,  looking  and  listening.  Listening  to  the  sounds  of 
arousal  about  the  country-side  ;  the  far-off  sounds  that  make  it 
beautiful  to  listen,  where  such  may  be  heard.  In  the  city  there  was 
only  the  rumble  and  clatter  just  under  her  windows  ;  this  smothered 
in  upon  her  heavily,  by  the  close  brick  walls  ;  now  and  then  the 
striking  of  a  clock,  or  the  chiming  of  a  bell  a  few  streets  off.  Here 
there  was  all  the  faint  sweet  music  that  comes  floating  over  breadth 
of  field  and  forest ;  the  wind  surging  in  the  great  trees  ;  the  whistle 
33 


514       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

of  the  ploughman,  and  his  cheery  call  to  the  oxen,  beginning  their 
day's  work  away  over  there  where  the  brown  furrows  lay  like  a  fine- 
lined  carpet  over  the  sunny  side-hill ;  the  distant  singing  of  wood 
birds,  and  wandering  notes  from  high  up  overhead  ;  the  flutter  and 
chirp  in  the  boughs  close  by  ;  the  voice  and  stir  of  domestic  crea- 
tures about  house  and  farm-yard  ;  there  were  only  these  in  all  the 
air ;  no  din  and  bustle  of  more  complicated  life  to  drown  them  ; 
they  came  in  pleasant  alternation,  and  succession,  and  blending,  tell- 
ing of  space,  and  joy,  and  freedom.  .  .  . 

Say  had  her  first  flitting  to  do  ;  out  among  the  chickens  —  dozens 
of  little  live  puff-balls  of  golden  down,  with  just  one  note  of  faint, 
tender  music  breathed  into  each  ;  into  the  shed-chamber,  the  "play- 
parlor"  of  old,  where  some  of  the  selfsame  bits  of  pink  and  blue 
china  were  set  up  on  the  ledges,  against  the  boards,  where  she  had 
put  them  years  ago  ;  a  glance  out  from  the  always-open  window ;  a 
counting  of  little  white,  and  black,  and  motley  pigs,  that  were,  at  the 
very  moment,  scrambling  after  each  other  over  the  bit  of  meadow, 
towards  the  oak  wood  —  off  thither,  for  their  day's  picnic  —  a  stroll 
down  through  the  great  barn  between  the  sweet-smelling  mows,  and 
so  out,  at  the  south  doors,  into  the  spring-meadow  ;  through  this,  by 
the  gravelled  cart-path,  running  around  two  sides  to  a  bar-place  in 
the  far  corner,  into  the  old  "  oak  orchard,"  away  beyond,  where  the 
great,  precipitous  gray  boulder  reared  itself  in  the  midst,  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill-field,  and  beside  it  spread  the  huge  branches  of  the 
ancient  tree  that  gave  its  name  to  the  plantation.  A  rest  here,  and 
a  long  look  over  the  valley,  to  the  blue,  misty  hills'  beyond  ;  a  ride 
on  the  old  apple  bough,  her  steed  in  days  of  yore  standing  here, 
waiting  still,  like  the  enchanted  horse  in  the  Alhambran  legend. 
Back  again,  after  a  while,  more  slowly  ;  a  peep  into  dairy  and  cheese- 
room  ;  a  delicious  peeking,  in  the  old  way,  at  white  tender  curd,  cut 
up  in  cubes,  ready  for  the  press  ;  and  at  last,  half  unwillingly,  an 
acknowledgment  of  the  one  "must"  of  her  first,  bright  day  of  multi- 
tudinous delights — unpacking;  she  had  all  this  to  fill  up  the  quick 
morning  hours,  and  bring  round  the  dinner-time,  before  she  had 
really  settled  what  to  do  with  the  day  at  all. 


THOMAS    STARR   KING.  $15 


THOMAS   STARR   KING. 

Thomas  Starr  King  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  December  16, 1824.  His  father 
was  a  clergyman,  and  had  several  places  of  residence  during  the  author's  boyhood,  among 
which  were  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  and  Charlestown,  Mass.  He  was  a  precocious  scholar, 
and  began  at  an  early  age  to  fit  himself  for  college,  but  was  unable  to  go  on  with  his  course 
of  education  on  account  of  the  straitened  circumstances  and  failing  health  of  his  father. 
When  his  father  died,  the  young  man,  then  only  fifteen  years  of  age,  went  into  a  dry  goods 
store,  and  aided  in  the  support  of  the  family.  All  branches  of  study  seemed  to  be  in  his  own 
province.  He  learned  modern  languages,  read  metaphysical  philosophy  with  avidity,  and 
rambled  through  literatures  as  through  pleasant  gardens.  He  taught  school  for  a  time 
while  still  in  his  minority,  served  a  while  as  a  clerk  at  the  navy-yard,  and  in  his  twenty- 
first  year  was  ordained  a  minister  of  the  Universalist  denomination  in  Charlestown,  in  the 
church  where  his  father  had  preached.  About  two  years  later  (1848)  he  became  pastor  of  the 
Hollis  Street  church,  in  Boston.  His  chief  energies  were  given  to  his  sermons,  lectures,  and 
public  addresses.  His  temper  was  enthusiastic,  his  manners  animated  and  graceful,  and  the 
expression  of  his  ideas  naturally  oratorical.  In  a  very  few  years  he  became  widely  known 
and  admired. 

In  April,  1860,  he  removed  from  Boston  to  San  Francisco,  to  become  pastor  of  the 
Unitarian  church.  His  labors  were  not  confined  to  his  parish  nor  to  religious  teaching. 
The  rebellion  having  broken  out,  there  was  a  severe  struggle  in  California  between  the 
friends  of  the  Union  on  the  one  side,  and  the  friends  of  secession  and  of  a  separate  empire 
on  the  Pacific  coast  on  the  other.  Mr.  King  entered  into  this  contest  with  all  the  ardor  of 
his  nature,  and  addressed  the  people  throughout  the  state.  It  is  believed  that  his  efforts 
were  greatly  instrumental  in  maintaining  the  sentiment  of  patriotism,  and  binding  that 
remote  region  to  the  fortunes  of  the  Federal  Union.  The  value  of  such  a  service  at  that 
critical  period  cannot  be  over-estimated.  He  was  never  a  very  robust  person,  and  his  con- 
stant activity  wore  upon  him,  until,  in  the  prime  of  his  life,  he  yielded  to  a  sudden  attack  of 
diphtheria.  He  died  March  4,  1864. 

Mr.  King  was  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  the  picturesque  in  nature,  and  was  as  fond  as 
Ruskin  of  reproducing  scenery  by  elaborate  word-pictures.  The  White  Mountains  particu- 
larly were  his  delight.  They  appeared  to  have  been  his  by  right  of  discovery,  or  pre- 
emption at  least  Year  after  year  during  his  summer  vacations  he  explored  valleys  and 
gorges,  and  scaled  precipices  and  peaks,  until  he  was  more  familiar  with  the  region  than  the 
natives  themselves.  He  published  in  a  handsome  quarto  volume,  in  1859,  The  White  Hills, 
their  Legends,  Landscapes,  and  Poetry.  The  work  is  well  illustrated  from  drawings  by  the 
late  M.  G.  Wheelock.  It  is  the  most  complete  work  of  the  kind  in  existence.  It  contains 
not  only  the  necessary  topographical  information,  but  a  great  many  descriptive  passages  of 
rare  beauty,  and  a  magazine  of  apposite  quotations  besides.  A  volume  of  selections  from 
his  public  speeches  was  published  in  1865,  but  no  proper  collection  of  his  miscellanies  has 
yet  been  made.  A  brief  but  exceedingly  interesting  biography  of  him  was  published  by  Mr. 
Richard  Frothingham,  of  Charlestown,  in  1865. 

[From  The  White  Hills.] 
THE   SACO  VALLEY. 

"  WHEN  the  lofty  and  barren  mountain,"  says  a  legend  I  have 
somewhere  read,  "was  first  upheaved  into  the  sky,  and  from  its 
elevation  looked  down  on  the  plains  below,  and  saw  the  valley  and 
the  less  elevated  hills  covered  with  verdant  and  fruitful  trees,  it  sent 
up  to  Brahma  something  like  a  murmur  of  complaint,  —  *  Why  thus 


5l6       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

barren  ?  why  these  scarred  and  naked  sides  exposed  to  the  eye  of 
man  ? '  And  Brahma  answered,  '  The  very  light  shall  clothe  thee, 
and  the  shadow  of  the  passing  cloud  shall  be  as  a  royal  mantle. 
More  verdure  would  be  less  light.  Thou  shalt  share  in  the  azure  of 
heaven,  and  the  youngest  and  whitest  cloud  of  a  summer's  sky  shall 
nestle  in  thy  bosom.  Thou  belongest  half  to  us.' 

"  So  was  the  mountain  dowered.  And  so  too,"  adds  the  legend, 
"have  the  loftiest  minds  of  men  been  in  all  ages  dowered.  To 
lower  elevations  have  been  given  the  pleasant  verdure,  the  vine,  and 
the  olive.  Light,  light  alone,  — and  the  deep  shadow  of  the  passing 
cloud,  —  these  are  the  gifts  of  the  prophets  of  the  race." 

The  glory  of  the  mountains  is  color.  A  great  many  people  think 
that  they  see  all  there  is  to  be  seen  of  the  White  Hills  in  one  visit. 
Have  they  not  been  driven  from  Conway  to  the  Notch,  and  did  they 
not  have  an  outside  seat  on  the  stage  on  a  clear  day  ?  Have  they 
not  seen  the  Glen  when  there  were  no  clouds,  and  ascended  Mount 
Washington,  and  devoted  a  day  and  a  half  to  Franconia,  and  crossed 
Winnipiseogee  on  their  way  home  ?  At  any  rate,  if  they  have  staid 
a  week  in  one  spot,  they  cannot  understand  why  they  may  not  be 
said  to  have  exhausted  it ;  and  if  they  have  passed  one  whole  season 
in  a  valley,  it  might  seem  to  them  folly  to  go  to  the  same  spot  the 
next  year.  .  .  . 

But  what  if  you  could  go  into  a  gallery  where  the  various  sculpture 
took  different  attitudes  every  day  ?  where  a  Claude  or  a  Turner  was 
present  and  changed  the  sunsets  on  his  canvas,  shifted  the  draperies 
of  mist  and  shadow,  combined  clouds  and  mead6ws  and  ridges  in 
ever- varying  beauty,  and  wiped  them  all  out  at  night  ?  .  .  . 

Would  one  visit,  then,  enable  a  man  to  say  that  he  had  seen  the 
gallery  ?  Would  one  season  be  sufficient  to  drain  the  interest  of  it  ? 
Thus  the  mountains  are  ever  changing.  They  are  never  two  days 
the  same.  The  varying  airs  of  summer,  the  angles  at  which,  in  dif- 
ferent summer  months,  the  light  strikes  them,  give  different  general 
character  to  the  landscapes  which  they  govern.  And  then,  when  we 
think  of  the  perpetual  frolic  of  the  sun  blaze  and  the  shadow  upon 
them,  never  twice  alike ;  the  brilliant  scarfs  into  which  the  mists 
that  stripe  or  entwine  them  are  changed  ;  the  vivid  splendors  that 
often  flame  upon  them  at  evening,  — 

Like  the  torrents  of  the  sun 
Upon  the  horizon  walls  ; 

the  rich,  deep,  but  more  vague  and  modest  hues,  which  we  try  in 
vain  to  bring  under  definition,  that  glow  upon  them  in  different  airs ; 


THOMAS    STARR   KING.  517 

• 

and  the  evanescent  tints  that  touch  them  only  now  and  then  in  a 
long  season,  as  though  they  were  something  too  rare  and  pure  to  be 
shown  for  more  than  a  moment  to  dwellers  of  the  earth,  and  then 
only  as  a  hint  of  what  may  be  displayed  in  diviner  climes, —  we  see 
that  it  is  the  landscape-eye  alone,  and  the  desire  to  cultivate  it, 
which  is  needed  to  make  the  mountains,  from  any  favorable  district 
such  as  North  Conway,  an  undrainable  resource  and  joy. 

Those  who  seek  a  sort  of  melo-dramatic  astonishment  by  the 
height  of  their  peaks  and  the  gloomy  menace  of  sheer  and  desolate 
walls,  will  be  disappointed  at  first,  and  will  not  find  that  the  moun- 
tains "  grow  upon  them."  But  it  is  not  so  with  color.  That  is  a 
perpetual  surprise.  The  glory  of  that,  even  upon  the  New  Hamp- 
shire mountains,  cannot  be  exaggerated.  They  should  be  sought  for 
their  pomp  far  more  than  for  their  configuration.  .  .  . 

The  inexperienced  eye  has  no  conception  of  the  affluent  delight 
that  is  kindled  by  the  opulence  of  pure  and  tender  colors  on  the 
mountains.  A  ramble  by  the  banks  of  the  Saco,  in  North  Conway, 
or  along  the  Androscoggin  below  Gorham,  will  often  yield  from  this 
cause  what  we  may  soberly  call  rapture  of  vision.  A  great  many 
persons,  in  looking  around  from  Artist's  Hill,  would  say  at  first  that 
green,  and  blue,  and  white,  and  gray,  in  the  foliage,  the  grass,  the 
sky,  the  clouds,  and  the  mountains,  were  the  only  colors  to  be 
noticed,  and  these  in  wide,  severely-contrasted  masses.  We  should 
go  entirely  beyond  their  appreciation  in  speaking  of  the  light-brown 
and  olive  plateaus  rising  from  the  wide  flats  of  meadow  green,  the 
richer  and  more  subtle  hues  on  the  darker  belt  of  lower  hills,  the 
sheeny  spaces  of  pure  sunshine  upon  smooth  slopes  or  level  sward, 
the  glimmer  of  pearly  radiance  upon  pools  of  aerial  sapphire  brought 
from  the  distant  mountains  in  the  wandering  Saco,  the  blue  and 
white  mistiness  from  clouds  and  distant  air  gleaming  in  the  chasms 
of  brooks  fresh  from  the  cool  top  of  Kearsarge,  and  the  gold  or  silver 
glances  of  light  upon  knolls  or  smooth  boulders  scattered  here  and 
there  upon  the  irregular  and  tawny  ground,  and  upon  the  house- 
roofs  beyond.  Yet  let  a  man  who  thinks  these  particulars  are 
imaginary  hold  his  head  down,  and  thus  reverse  his  eyes,  and  then 
say  whether  the  delicacy  and  variety  of  hues  are  exaggerated  in 
such  a  statement.  There  are  those  who  have  such  a  perception  of 
colors  with  their  eyes  upright.  And  they  will  know  that  the  tints 
just  noted  are  only  hints  of  a  great  color-symphony  to  be  wrought 
out  upon  the  wide  landscape.  They  know  how  the  rich  or  sombre 
passages  of  shade,  and  the  olive  strips  and  slaty  breadths  of  dark- 


5l8       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

ness,  will  be  transformed  in  some  glorious  afternoon,  when  the  land- 
scape assumes  its  full  pomp,  into  masses  of  more  ethereal  gloom, 
and  made  magnificent  by  the  intermixture  of  gorgeous  tones  of  pur- 
ples, emeralds,  and  russets  with  cloudy  azure  and  subtle  gray  along 
the  second  part  of  the  mountain  outworks.  They  know  how  those 
flecks  of  pearl  and  sapphire  upon  the  meadow  will  mingle  and  spread 
with  shifting  azure  and  amethyst  upon  the  lower  parts  of  the  great 
mountains ;  and  how  the  spaces  of  sunshine,  the  blue  and  white 
mistiness,  and  the  golden  and  silver  glances  of  light,  will  assume 
new  beauty  and  larger  proportions  amid  the  gleaming  hues  of  the 
looming  azure  ridge,  the  waving  gray  and  purple  of  cloud-enwrapped 
peak,  the  tender  flashes  of  changeful  light  and  tint  in  sky  and  cloud, 
and  the  tremulous  violet  and  aerial  orange  of  the  mysterious  ravines, 
with  their  wondrous  sloping  arras,  on  whose  striped  folds,  inwrought 
with  gold  and  silver  upon  pale  emerald  ground,  are,  one  might  think, 
the  mystical  signs  of  some  weird  powers  that  work  from  within 
the  earth. 


BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

James  Bayard  Taylor  was  born  in  Kennett  Square,  Chester  Co.,  Penn.,  January  n,  1825. 
He  became  an  apprentice  in  a  printing  office  in  his  native  county  at  seventeen  years  of  age, 
and  was  a  contributor  of  verses  to  the  newspapers.  A  collection  of  these  early  poems, 
entitled  Ximena,  was  published  in  1844,  after  which  he  went  to  Europe,  and  travelled  over 
the  country  mostly  as  a  pedestrian.  On  his  return  he  published  an  account  of  his  tour, 
entitled  Views  Afoot,  or  Europe  as  seen  with  Knapsack  and  Staff  He  subsequently  wrote 
for  the  Literary  World,  and  for  the  New  York  Tribune.  He  became  in  time  one  of  the 
editors  and  proprietors  of  the  Tribune,  and  contributed  afterwards  to  its  columns  accounts 
of  his  many  journeys.  The  titles  of  his  books  will  show  the  many  countries  he  has  visited. 
In  1849  he  published  El  Dorado,  an  account  of  a  trip  to  California  and  Mexico ;  in  1853 
(i)  Journey  to  Central  Africa;  (2)  Lands  of  the  Saracen  ;  (3)  Visit  to  India,  China,  Loo- 
Choo,  and  Japan.  These  three  volumes  record  his  observations  in  a  series  of  voyages  and 
travels  extending  to  fifty  thousand  miles.  In  1857  he  published  Northern  Travel,  an  account 
of  a  tour  through  Sweden,  Denmark,  and  Lapland.  In  1859  appeared  a  work  on  Greece  and 
Russia. 

His  literary  labors  have  not  been  confined  to  travels.  A  list  of  his  works  will  show  his 
unwearied  industry  in  other  departments.  He  published  Rhymes  of  Travel  in  1848  ;  a  Book 
of  Romances,  Lyrics,  and  Songs  in  1851  ;  Poems  of  the  Orient  in  1854  ;  Poems  of  Home  and 
Travel  in  1855.  This  last  volume  contained  only  such  poems  as  the  author  then  wished  to 
acknowledge.  Since  then  have  appeared  At  Home  and  Abroad  (1859),  and  a  second  series 
(1862)  ;  The  Poet's  Journal  (1862)  ;  Hannah  Thurston,  a  novel  (1863)  ;  The  Fortunes  of 
John  Godfrey  (1864)  ;  The  Story  of  Kennett  (1866);  Picture  of  St.  John  (1866)  ;  Colorado, 
a  Summer  Trip  (1867)  ;  Frithiof's  Saga  (iS67)  ;  Byways  of  Europe  (1869);  The  Ballad  of 
Abraham  Lincoln  (1869)  ;  A  new  translation  of  Goethe's  Faust  (1870).  He  has  also  edited 
a  Cyclopaedia  of  Modern  Travel,  which  commenced  in  1856.  Were  it  only  for  his  active 
life  of  enterprise  and  for  the  additions  he  has  made  to  our  knowledge,  Mr.  Taylor  should 


BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

be  held  in  grateful  esteem.  His  positive  merits  as  a  writer,  however,  deserve  a  warmer 
recognition.  His-descriptions  are  clearly  and  vividly  portrayed,  and  his  books  are  weighted 
with  but  little  of  the  ordinary  traveller's  burden  of  unimportant  personal  details.  They 
are  interesting  as  mere  narratives,  and  of  permanent  value  for  the  facts  they  record.  His 
Oriental  poems  have  a  natural  warmth  of  color  and  vivacity  of  expression.  He  will  be  chiefly 
remembered,  however,  among  poets,  for  his  faithful  and  admirable  translation  of  Faust,  a 
work  that  testifies  to  his  skill,  poetic  feeling,  and  mastery  of  expression. 

[From  Greece  and  Russia.] 
THE   HAUNTS   OF   THE   MUSES. 

WE  left  Athens,  on  the  I3th  of  April,  for  a  journey  to  Parnassus 
and  the  northern  frontier  of  Greece.  The  company  consisted  of 
Francois,  Braisted,  and  myself,  and  Ajax,  and  Themistocles,  our 
agoyats,  or  grooms.  It  was  a  teeming,  dazzling  day,  with  light 
scarfs  of  cloud-crape  in  the  sky,  and  a  delicious  breeze  from  the  west 
blowing  through  the  pass  of  Daphne.  The  Gulf  of  Salamis  was 
pure  ultramarine,  covered  with  velvety  bloom,  while  the  island  and 
Mount  Kerata  swam  in  transparent  pink  and  violet  tints.  Greece, 
on  such  a  day,  is  living  Greece  again.  The  soul  of  ancient  Art  and 
Poetry  throbs  in  the  splendid  air,  and  pours  its  divinest  light  upon 
the  landscape. 

Crossing  the  sacred  plain  of  Eleusis  for  the  fourth  time  in  my 
Grecian  journeys,  our  road  entered  the  mountains  —  lower  off  shoots 
Cithasron,  which  divides  the  plain  from  that  of  Boeotia.  They  are 
now  covered  with  young  pines  to  the  very  summits,  and  Francois 
directed  my  attention  to  the  rapidity  with  which  the  mountains  were 
becoming  wooded  since  destruction  of  young  trees  has  been  pro- 
hibited by  law.  The  agricultural  prosperity  of  the  country,  in  many 
districts,  depends  entirely  on  the  restoration  of  the  lost  forests. 
The  sun  was  intensely  hot  in  the  close  glens,  and  we  found  the 
shade  of  the  old  Cithasronian  pines  very  grateful.  We  met  a  strag- 
gling company  of  lancers  returning  from  the  Thessalian  frontier, 
and  many  travellers  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon.  Among  the 
baggage  animals  following  the  lancers  we  were  surprised  to  find 
Pegasus  and  Bellerophon,  the  lean  horses  which  had  carried  us 
through  the  Peloponnesus  ;  and  soon  after  Aristides  himself  re- 
splendent in  clean  Easter  garments.  He  was  greatly  disappointed 
at  seeing  us  under  way,  as  he  intended  to  carry  us  to  the  Mount 
of  Song  on  his  own  winged  steeds. 

Towards  evening  we  descended  into  the  valley  of  the  Eleusinian 
Cephissus,  at  the  foot  of  Cithaeron,  passing  the  remains  of  an  ancient 
tower  twenty  feet  high.  At  sunset,  when  the  sky  had  become  over- 


52O  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

cast  and  stormy,  we  reached  the  solitary  khan  of  Casa,  at  the  foot  of 
a  rocky,  precipitous  hill,  crowned  by  the  Acropolis  of  (Enoe,  and 
were  heartily  glad  to  find  shelter  in  the  windy  building  from  the 
more  violent  wind  outside.  .  .  . 

We  awoke  to  a  cloudless  sky,  and  after  coffee  climbed  the  hill  of 
CEnoe,  or  Eleutheria,  whichever  it  may  be.  I  suppose  Leake  is  most 
likely  to  be  right,  and  so  I  shall  call  it  (Enoe.  A  hard  pull  of  fifteen 
minutes  brought  us  to  the  lower  part  of  the  wall,  which  is  composed 
of  blocks  of  gray  conglomerate  limestone  —  the  native  rock  of  the 
hill.  The  walls  are  eight  feet  thick,  and  strengthened  by  projecting 
square  towers.  .  .  . 

The  walls  are  better  preserved  than  any  I  saw  in  Greece.  They 
date  from  the  time  of  Alexander  the  Great.  The  position  of  the 
place,  among  the  wild  peaks  of  Cithasron,  makes  it  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  ruins  of  the  country.  We  now  climbed  the  main  ridge 
of  the  mountains,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  reached  the  highest  point 
—  whence  the  great  Boeotian  plain  suddenly  opened  to  our  view. 

In  the  distance  gleamed  Lake  Copais,  and  the  hills  beyond  the 
snowy  top  of  Parnassus  lifted  clear  and  bright  above  the  morning 
vapors  ;  and  at  last,  as  we  turned  a  shoulder  of  the  mountain  in  de- 
scending, the  streaky  top  of  Helicon  appeared  on  the  left,  completing 
the  classic  features  of  the  landscape.  ...  I  then  turned  my  horse's 
head  towards  Thebes,  which  we  reached  in  two  hours.  .  .  . 

The  site  of  the  town  is  superb  :  both  Helicon  and  Parnassus  tower 
in  the  south  and  west,  and  even  a  corner  of  Pentelicus  is  visible. 
While  I  sat  beside  the  old  tower,  sketching  the  Mountain  of  the 
Sphinx,  a  Theban  eagle  —  the  spirit  of  Pindar  —  soared  slowly 
through  the  blue  depths  above.  The  memories  of  Pindar  and 
Epaminondas  consecrate  the  soil  of  Thebes,  though  she  helped  to 
ruin  Greece  by  her  selfish  jealousy  of  Athens.  It  is  not  an  ac- 
cidental circumstance  that  she  has  so  utterly  disappeared,  while 
the  Propylaea,  of  the  Athenian  Acropolis,  which  Epaminondas  threat- 
ened to  carry  off,  still  stand  — and  may  they  stand  forever  !  .  .  . 

The  next  morning  we  rode  down  from  the  Cadmeion,  and  took 
the  highway  to  Livadia,  leading  straight  across  the  Boeotian  plain. 
It  is  one  of  the  finest  alluvial  bottoms  in  the  world,  a  deep,  dark 
vegetable  mould,  which  would  produce  almost  without  limit,  were  it 
properly  cultivated.  Before  us,  blue  and  dark  under  the  weight  of 
clouds,  lay  Parnassus,  and  far  across  the  immense  plain  the  blue 
peaks  of  Mount  (Eta.  In  three  hours  we  reached  the  foot  of  Helicon, 
and  looked  up  at  the  streaks  of  snow  which  melt  into  the  Fountain 


RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD.  521 

of  the  Muses.  Presently  a  stream,  as  limpid  as  air,  issued  from  the 
cleft  of  the  mountain.  O  fons  Bandusice,  splendidior  vitro,  I  ex- 
claimed ;  but  it  was  diviner  than  the  Bandusian  wave,  which  gurgled 
its  liquid  dactyls  over  marble  pebbles.  Ajax  and  Themistocles  had 
halted  in  the  shade  of  a  garden  on  the  bank ;  Francois  was  unpack- 
ing his  saddle-bags  ;  so  I  leaped  from  Erato,  my  mare,  knelt  among 
asphodels,  and  drank.  The  water  had  that  sweetness  and  purity 
which  make  you  seem  to  inhale  rather  than  drink  it.  The  palate 
swam  in  the  delicious  flood  with  a  delight  which  acknowledged  no 
satiety.  What  is  this  ?  I  said,  as  I  lifted  up  my  head :  can  it  be  the 
Muses'  Fountain  coming  down  from  yonder  mountain  ?  Whence  this 
longing  unsuppressed  in  my  breast  —  this  desire  that  is  springing  to 
be  singing?  My  veins  are  on  fire  —  give  me  a  lyre  !  "I'll  beat 
Apollo  all  hollow." 

"  Pshaw,"  said  Francois,  who  had  just  taken  a  draught.  "  He 
now  can  drink,  who  chooses,  at  the  Fountain  of  the  Muses.  Why 
you  know  the  gods  and  goddesses,  and  the  nymphs  in  scanty  bodices, 
are  now  no  more  detected  in  the  shrines  to  them  erected.  That 
was  a  superstition  unworthy  a  man  of  your  position.  To  such  illu- 
sions you're  no  dupe  ;  this  water's  very  good  for  soup." 

"  Sound  the  hewgag,  beat  the  tonjon,"  exclaimed  Braisted,  who 
had  not  been  thirsty  ;  "  I  believe  you  are  both  crazy." 

But  the  mare,  Erato,  who  had  taken  long  draughts  from  the 
stream,  whinnied,  whisked  her  tail,  and  galloped  off  one  line  of 
hexameter  after  another  as  we  continued  our  journey. 

So  I  devoutly  testify  that  Helicon  is  not  yet  dry,  and  the  Fountain 
of  the  Muses  retains  its  ancient  virtue. 


RICHARD    HENRY   STODDARD. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard  was  born  in  Hingham,  Mass.,  in  July,  1825.  He  removed  to 
New  York  city  in  early  youth,  and  in  1848  became  a  contributor  to  the  periodical  press.  A 
collection  of  his  poems,  entitled  Footprints,  was  published  in  1849,  and  another  in  1852. 
He  has  also  written  Adventures  in  Fairy  Land,  a  series  of  tales  ;  Songs  of  Summer ;  Town 
and  Country :  Loves  and  Heroines  of  the  Poets ;  The  King's  Bell ;  Putnam  the  Brave ; 
Alexander  von  Humboldt  (a  convenient  rtsiime.  of  his  life,  travels,  and  works) ;  Abraham 
Lincoln,  an  ode  ;  the  Book  of  the  East.  Besides,  he  has  edited  various  selections  from  the 
poets,  ancient  and  modern.  His  last  volume,  Book  of  the  East,  from  which  our  selections 
have  been  made,  shows  the  poet  attaining  to  a  fuller  and  fairer  expression  of  thought.  There 
were  promising  glimpses  and  suggestions  in  his  earlier  poems,  but  his  art  had  not  then 
learned  to  conceal  art.  The  lines  seemed  labored  and  obscure,  so  that  the  most  sympathetic 
reader  might  be  in  doubt  as  to  what  was  intended  by  them.  These  later  verses  can  be  com- 
mended without  reservation,  as  exhibiting  genuine  feeling  and  poetic  power. 


522  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


ADSUM. 

(December  23-24,  1863.) 
I. 

THE  Angel  came  by  night, 

(Such  angels  still  come  down  !) 
And  like  a  winter  cloud 

Passed  over  London  town  ; 
Along  its  lonesome  streets, 

Where  Want  had  ceased  to  weep, 
Until  it  reached  a  house 

Where  a  great  man  lay  asleep  ;  — 
The  man  of  all  his  time 

Who  knew  the  most  of  men,  — 
The  soundest  head  and  heart, 

The  sharpest,  kindest  pen. 
It  paused  beside  his  bed, 

And  whispered  in  his  ear ; 
He  never  turned  his  head, 

But  answered,  "  I  am  here." 

II. 
Into  the  night  they  went. 

At  morning,  side  by  side, 
They  gained  the  sacred  Place 

Where  the  greatest  Dead  abide  J 
Where  grand  old  Homer  sits 

In  godlike  state  benign  ; 
Where  broods  in  endless  thought 

The  awful  Florentine  ; 
Where  sweet  Cervantes  walks, 

A  smile  on  his  grave  face  ; 
Where  gossips  quaint  Montaigne, 

The  wisest  of  his  race  ; 
Where  Goethe  looks  through  all 

With  that  calm  eye  of  his ; 
Where  —  little  seen  but  Light  — 

The  only  Shakespeare  is  ! 
When  the  new  Spirit  came, 

They  asked  him,  drawing  near, 
"  Art  thou  become  like  us  ?  " 

He  answered,  "  I  am  here." 


RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD.  523 


THE   COUNTRY   LIFE. 

NOT  what  we  would,  but  what  we  must, 

Makes  up  the  sum  of  living  ; 
Heaven  is  both  more  and  less  than  just 

In  taking  and  in  giving. 

Swords  cleave  to  hands  that  sought  the  plough, 
And  laurels  miss  the  soldier's  brow. 

Me,  whom  the  city  holds,  whose  feet 

Have  worn  its  stony  highways, 
Familiar  with  its  loneliest  street,  — 

Its  ways  were  never  my  ways. 
My  cradle  was  beside  the  sea, 
And  there,  I  hope,  my  grave  will  be. 

Old  homestead  !  in  that  old  gray  town 

Thy  vane  is  seaward  blowing  ; 
Thy  slip  of  garden  stretches  down 

To  where  the  tide  is  flowing  ; 
Below  they  lie,  their  sails  ail  furled, 
The  ships  that  go  about  the  world. 

Dearer  that  little  country  house, 

Inland  with  pines  beside  it ; 
Some  peach  trees,  with  unfruitful  boughs, 

A  well,  with  weeds  to  hide  it : 
No  flowers,  or  only  such  as  rise 
Self-sown  —  poor  things  !  —  which  all  despise. 

Dear  country  home  !  can  I  forget 

The  least  of  thy  sweet  trifles  ? 
The  window-vines  that  clamber  yet, 

Whose  blooms  the  bee  still  rifles  ? 
The  roadside  blackberries,  growing  ripe, 
And  in  the  woods  the  Indian  pipe  ? 

Happy  the  man  who  tills  his  field, 

Content  with  rustic  labor  ; 
Earth  does  to  him  her  fulness  yield, 

Hap  what  may  to  his  neighbor. 


524       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Well  days,  sound  nights  —  O,  can  there  be 
A  life  more  rational  and  free  ? 


Dear  country  life  of  child  and  man  1 
For  both  the  best,  the  strongest, 

That  with  the  earliest  race  began, 
And  hast  outlived  the  longest ; 

Their  cities  perished  long  ago  ; 

Who  the  first  farmers  were  we  know. 

Perhaps  our  Babels  too  will  fall  ; 

If  so,  no  lamentations, 
For  Mother  Earth  will  shelter  all, 

And  feed  the  unborn  nations  ! 
Yes,  and  the  swords  that  menace  now 
Will  then  be  beaten  to  the  plough. 


JOHN   WILLIAMSON   PALMER. 

John  Williamson  Palmer  was  bora  in  Baltimore,  Md.,  April  4,  1825.  He  received  a  lib- 
eral education,  and  studied  medicine  at  a  school  in  Philadelphia.  He  went  to  California  in 
the  midst  of  the  excitement  that  followed  the  discovery  of  gold,  and  was  city  physician  of 
San  Francisco  in  1849.  Having  made  a  voyage  to  China  in  1852,  he  was  engaged,  while  at 
Hong  Kong,  as  surgeon  on  the  Phlegetiwn,  one  of  the  East  India  Company's  war  steamers, 
and  served  through  a  campaign  in  Burmah.  On  his  return  to  this  country  he  published  an 
account  of  his  experiences,  entitled  The  Golden  Dagon,  or  Up  and  Down  the  Irrawaddi. 
He  was  a  contributor  to  Putnam's,  Harper's,  and  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  to  the  New 
York  Tribune,  and  other  periodicals.  His  papers  in  the  Atlantic,  mostly  upon  traits  of 
Oriental  life,  were  exceedingly  spirited,  faithful,  and  picturesque  studies.  His  skill  as  an 
artist  is  unexcelled,  and  the  accuracy  of  his  descriptions  is  vouched  for  by  all  who  have 
lived  in  the  East.  He  wrote  a  comedy  called  The  Queen's  Heart,  which  was  produced  in 
Boston  in  1858  with  flattering  success.  The  New  and  the  Old  appeared  in  1859.  In  this 
work  the  characteristics  of  the  miners,  and  of  the  motley  elements  that  had  congregated  in 
California,  were  set  forth  with  graphic  power.  These  sketches  were  the  first  attempts  to 
portray  that  new  and  exceptional  phase  of  society.  In  the  same  year  he  translated  Miche- 
let's  L'Amour.  In  1860  he  published  Folk  Songs,  an  admirable  collection  of  popular  poe- 
try. During  the  late  civil  war  he  was  engaged  in  other  than  literary  pursuits,  being  warmly 
attached  to  the  cause  of  the  South,  and  serving  it  as  best  he  could.  In  1867  he  published 
a  second  compilation,  entitled  The  Poetry  of  Compliment  and  Courtship. 

Dr.  Palmer  resides  in  Baltimore,  and  has  been  recently  editor  of  a  weekly  paper  there 
His  wife,  Henrietta  Lee  Palmer,  has  written  a  work  called  The  Heroines  of  Shakespeare, 
a  series  of  studies  of  female  character,  published  in  an  elegant  style  by  the  Messrs.  Apple- 
ton,  of  New  York. 


JOHN    WILLIAMSON    PALMER.  52$ 

[From  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  June,  1858.] 
ASIRVADAM   THE   BRAHMIN. 

SIMPLICITY,  convenience,  decorum,  and  picturesqueness  distin- 
guish the  costume  of  Asirvadam  the  Brahmin.  Three  yards  of 
yard-wide  fine  cotton  envelop  his  loins  in  such  a  manner  that,  while 
one  end  hangs  in  graceful  folds  in  front,  the  other  falls  in  a  fine  dis- 
traction behind.  Over  this,  a  robe  of  muslin  or  pifia  cloth  —  the  lat- 
ter in  peculiar  favor  by  reason  of  its  superior  purity  for  high-caste 
wear  —  covers  his  neck,  breast,  and  arms,  and  descends  nearly  to 
his  ankles.  Asirvadam  borrowed  this  garment  from  the  Mussul- 
man ;  but  he  fastens  it  on  the  left  side,  which  the  follower  of  the 
Prophet  never  does,  and  surmounts  it  with  an  ample  and  elegant 
waistband  beside  the  broad  Romanesque  mantle  that  he  tosses  over 
his  shoulder  with  such  a  senatorial  air.  His  turban,  also,  is  an  inno- 
vation,—  not  proper  to  the  Brahmin, — pure  and  simple,  but,  like 
the  robe,  adopted  from  the  Moorish  wardrobe  for  a  more  imposing 
appearance  in  Sahib  society.  It  is  formed  of  a  very  narrow  strip, 
fifteen  or  twenty  yards  long,  of  fine  stuff,  moulded  to  the  orthodox 
shape  and  size  by  wrapping  it,  while  wet,  on  a  wooden  block  ;  hav- 
ing been  hardened  in  the  sun,  it  is  worn  like  a  hat.  As  for  his  feet, 
Asirvadam,  uncompromising  in  externals,  disdains  to  pollute  them 
with  the  touch  of  leather.  Shameless  fellows,  Brahmins  though  they 
be,  of  the  sect  of  Vishnu,  go  about  without  a  blush  in  thonged  san- 
dals, made  of  abominable  skins  ;  but  Asirvadam,  strict  as  a  Gooroo 
when  the  eyes  of  his  caste  are  upon  him,  is  immaculate  in  wooden 
clogs. 

In  ornaments  his  taste,  though  somewhat  grotesque,  is  by  no 
means  lavish.  A  sort  of  stud  or  button,  composed  of  a  solitary  ruby, 
in  the  upper  rim  of  the  cartilage  of  either  ear,  a  chain  of  gold, 
curiously  wrought,  and  intertwined  with  a  string  of  small  pearls, 
around  his  neck,  a  massive  bangle  of  plain  gold  on  his  arm,  a  richly 
jewelled  ring  on  his  thumb,  and  others,  broad  and  shield-like,  on  his 
toes,  complete  his  outfit  in  these  vanities. 

As  often  as  Asirvadam  honors  us  with  his  morning  visit  of  busi- 
ness or  ceremony,  a  slight  yellow  line,  drawn  horizontally  between 
his  eyebrows,  with  a  paste  composed  of  ground  sandal-wood,  denotes 
that  he  has  purified  himself  externally  and  internally  by  bathing  and 
prayers.  To  omit  this,  even  by  the  most  unavoidable  chance  to 
appear  in  public  without  it,  were  to  incur  a  grave  public  scandal ; 
only  excepting  the  season  of  mourning,  when,  by  an  expressive 


526       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Oriental  figure,  the  absence  of  the  caste-mark  is  accepted  for  the 
token  of  a  profound  and  absorbing  sorrow,  which  takes  no  thought 
even  for  the  customary  forms  of  decency.  .  .  . 

When  Asirvadam  was  but  seven  years  old  he  was  invested  with 
the  triple  cord  by  a  grotesque,  and  in  most  respects  absurd,  extrava- 
gant, and  expensive  ceremony,  called  the  Upanayana,  or  Introduc- 
tion to  the  Sciences,  because  none  but  Brahmins  are  freely  admitted 
to  their  mysteries.  This  triple  cord  consists  of  three  thick  strands 
of  cotton,  each  composed  of  several  finer  threads.  These  three 
strands,  representing  Brahma,  Vishnu,  and  Siva,  are  not  twisted 
together,  but  hang  separately  from  the  left  shoulder  to  the  right  hip. 
The  preparation  of  so  sacred  a  badge  is  intrusted  to  none  but  the 
purest  hands,  and  the  process  is  attended  with  many  imposing  cere- 
monies. Only  Brahmins  may  gather  the  fresh  cotton ;  only  Brah- 
mins may  card,  and  spin,  and  twist  it ;  and  its  investiture  is  a  matter 
of  so  great  cost,  that  the  poorer  brothers  must  have  recourse  to  con- 
tributions from  the  pious  of  their  caste  to  defray  the  exorbitant 
charges  of  priests  and  masters  of  ceremonies. 

It  is  a  noticeable  fact  in  the  natural  history  of  the  always  insolent 
Asirvadam,  that,  unlike  Shatriya  the  warrior,  Vaishya  the  cultivator, 
or  Soodra  the  laborer,  he  is  not  born  into  the  full  enjoyment  of  his 
honors,  but,  on  the  contrary,  is  scarcely  of  more  consideration  than 
a  Pariah,  until  by  the  Upanayana  he  has  been  admitted  to  his  birth- 
right. Yet,  once  decorated  with  the  ennobling  badge  of  his  order, 
our  friend  became  from  that  moment  something  superior,  something 
exclusive,  something  supercilious,  arrogant,  exacting,  —  Asirvadam, 
the  high  Brahmin,  —  a  creature  of  wide  strides  without  awkward- 
ness, towering  airs  without  bombast,  Sanscrit  quotations  without 
pedantry,  florid  phraseology  without  hyperbole,  allegorical  illustra- 
tions and  proverbial  points  without  sententiousness,  fanciful  flights 
without  affectation,  and  formal  strains  of  compliment  without  offen- 
sive adulation.  .  .  . 

Asirvadam  has  choice  of  a  hundred  callings,  as  various  in  dignivv 
and  profit  as  they  are  numerous.  Under  native  rule  he  makes  a 
good  cooly,  because  the  officers  of  the  revenue  are  forbidden  trt 
search  a  Brahmin's  baggage,  or  anything  that  he  carries.  He  is  an 
expeditious  messenger,  for  no  man  may  stop  him  ;  and  he  can  travel 
cheaply,  for  whom  there  is  free  entertainment  on  every  road.  In 
financial  straits  he  may  teach  dancing  to  nautch-girls  ;  or  he  maj 
play  the  mountebank  or  the  conjurer,  and,  with  a  stock  of  mantras 
and  charms,  proceed  to  the  curing  of  murrain  in  cattle,  pip  in  chick- 


JOHN    WILLIAMSON    PALMER. 

ens,  and  short-windedness  in  old  women,  at  the  same  time  telling 
fortunes,  calculating  nativities,  finding  lost  treasure,  advising  as  to 
journeys  and  speculations,  and  crossing  out  crosses  in  love  for  any 
pretty  dear  who  will  cross  the  poor  Brahmin's  palm  with  a  rupee. 
He  may  engage  in  commercial  pursuits  ;  and,  in  that  case,  his  bull- 
ing and  bearing  at  the  opium  sales  will  put  Wall  Street  to  the  blush. 
He  may  turn  his  attention  to  the  healing  art ;  and  allopathically, 
homceopathically,  hydropathically,electropathically,  or  by  any  other 
path,  run  a  muck  through  many  heathen  hospitals.  The  field  of 
politics  is  full  of  charms  for  him,  the  church  invites  his  taste  and 
talents,  and  the  army  tempts  him  with  opportunities  for  intrigue,  — 
but,  whether  in  the  shape  of  Machiavelisms,  miracles,  or  mutinies,  he 
is  forever  making  mischief;  whether  as  messenger,  dancing-master, 
conjurer,  fortune-teller,  speculator,  mountebank,  politician,  priest,  or 
Sepoy,  he  is  ever  the  same  Asirvadam  the  Brahmin,  —  sleekest  of 
lackeys,  most  servile  of  sycophants,  expertest  of  tricksters,  smooth- 
est of  hypocrites,  coolest  of  liars,  most  insolent  of  beggars,  most  ver^ 
satile  of  adventurers,  most  inventive  of  charlatans,  most  restless  of 
schemers,  most  insidious  of  Jesuits,  most  treacherous  of  confidants, 
falsest  of  friends,  hardest  of  masters,  most  arrogant  of  patrons,  cru- 
elest  of  tyrants,  most  patient  of  haters,  most  insatiable  of  avengers, 
most  gluttonous  of  ravishers,  most  infernal  of  devils,  —  pleasantest 
of  fellows. 

Superlatively  dainty  as  to  his  fopperies  of  orthodoxy,  Asirvadam 
is  continually  dying  of  Pariah  roses  in  aromatic  pains  of  caste.  If, 
in  his  goings  and  comings,  one  of  the  "lilies  of  Nelufar"  should 
chance  to  stumble  upon  a  bit  of  bone  or  rag,  a  fragment  of  a  dish,  or 
a  leaf  from  which  some  one  has  eaten  ;  should  his  sacred  raiment 
be  polluted  by  the  touch  of  a  dog  or  a  Pariah,  — he  is  ready  to  faint, 
and  only  a  bath  can  revive  him.  He  may  not  touch  his  sandals  with 
his  hand,  nor  repose  in  a  strange  seat,  but  is  provided  with  a  mat,  a 
carpet,  or  an  antelope's  skin,  to  serve  him  for  a  cushion  in  the  houses 
of  his  friends.  With  a  kid  glove  you  may  put  his  respectability  in 
peril,  and  with  your  patent-leather  pumps  affright  his  soul  within 
him.  To  him  a  pocket-handkerchief  is  a  sore  offence,  and  a  tooth- 
pick monstrous.  All  the  Vedas  could  not  save  the  Giaour  who 
"chews,"  nor  burnt  brandy,  though  the  Seven  Penitents  distilled  it, 
purify  the  mouth  that  a  tooth-brush  has  polluted.  Beware  how  you 
offer  him  a  wafered  letter ;  and  when  you  present  him  with  a  copy 
of  your  travels,  let  it  be  bound  in  cloth. 


528  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


ROSE  TERRY. 

Rose  Terry  was  born  in  the  town  of  Hartford,  Conn.,  February  17,  1827,  and  has  always 
lived  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  her  birthplace.  She  wrote  a  number  of  admirable 
stories  and  sketches  for  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  in  which  she  displayed  a  keen  observation  of 
character,  a  nice  perception  of  humor,  and  admirable  descriptive  powers.  Those  who  are 
familiar  with  the  early  numbers  of  the  Atlantic  will  recall  Ann  Potter's  Lesson,  Sally  Par- 
sons's  Duty,  Turkey  Tracks,  and  others,  as  among  the  most  genuine  and  life-like  pictures 
of  country  life  in  this  age  of  descriptive  writing.  Miss  Terry  shares  with  Mrs.  Stowe  and 
Mr.  Trowbridge  the  honor  of  making  the  most  natural  and  amusing  sketches  of  the  rustic 
Yankees,  male  and  female.  She  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  1861  which  evince  a 
delicate  sense  of  the  beautiful  in  nature,  a  tender  and  rather  melancholy  feeling,  and  a  sweet 
and  melodious  style  of  versification.  Both  the  poems  and  the  stories  convey  an  impression 
*f  a  refined  and  lovely  nature. 

EXOGENESIS. 

THE  curving  beach  and  shining  bay 

Stretch  from  the  cliff-foot  far  away, 

Where  sailing  dreams  of  ships  go  by 

And  trace  their  spars  against  the  sky. 

A  belt  of  woodland  dense  and  dark, 

The  distant  beacon's  flashing  spark, 

The  moth-white  sails  that  wing-and-wing 

Up  from  the  purple  ocean  spring  ;  — 

One  and  all,  in  the  perfect  hour, 

Open  to  life  its  perfect  flower ; 

Though  the  ardent  rose  is  dim  and  dead, 

Though  the  cool  Spring-daisies  all  are  fled, 

The  lily  unfolds  its  tintless  calm 

And  the  golden  anthers  are  spiced  with  balm. 

Come,  my  soul,  from  thy  silent  cell ! 

Know  the  healing  of  Nature's  spell. 

The  soft,  wild  waves,  that  rush  and  leap, 

Sing  one  song  from  the  hoary  deep  ; 

The  south-wind  knows  its  own  refrain 

As  it  speeds  the  cloud  o'er  heaven's  blue  main. 

"  Lose  thyself,  thyself  to  win  : 

Grow  from  without  thee,  not  within." 

Leave  thy  thought  and  care  alone, 
Let  the  dead  for  the  dead  make  moan ; 
Gather  from  earth  and  air  and  sea 
The  pulseless  peace  they  keep  for  thee, 


ROSE   TERRY.  $29 

Ring  on  ring  of  sight  and  sound 

Shall  hide  thy  heart  in  a  calm  profound,  — 

Where  the  works  of  men  and  the  ways  of  earth 

Shall  never  enter  with  tears  or  mirth, 

And  the  love  of  kind  shall  kinder  be 

From  nature  than  humanity. 


DECEMBER   XXXI. 

THERE  goes  an  old  Gaffer  over  the  hill, 

Thieving,  and  old,  and  gray  ; 
He  walks  the  green  world  his  wallet  to  fill, 

And  carries  good  spoil  away. 

Into  his  bag  he  popped  a  king  ; 

After  him  went  a  friar, 
Many  a  lady,  with  gay  gold  ring, 

Many  a  knight  and  squire. 

He  carried  my  true  love  far  away, 

He  stole  the  dog  at  my  door  ; 
The  wicked  old  Gaffer,  thieving  and  gray, 

He'll  never  come  by  any  more. 

My  little  darling,  white  and  fair, 

Sat  in  the  door  and  spun  ; 
He  caught  her  fast  by  her  silken  hair, 

Before  the  child  could  run. 

He  stole  the  florins  out  of  my  purse, 
The  sunshine  out  of  mine  eyes  ; 

He  stole  my  roses,  and,  what  is  worse, 
The  gray  old  Gaffer  told  lies. 

He  promised  fair  when  he  came  by, 
And  laughed  as  he  slipped  away, 

For  every  promise  turned  out  a  lie  ; 
But  his  tale  is  over  to-day. 

Good  by,  old  Gaffer  !  you'll  come  no  more  ; 

You've  done  your  worst  for  me. 
The  next  gray  robber  will  pass  my  door  ; 

There's  nothing  to  steal  or  see  ! 
34 


53°  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


THE  TWO  VILLAGES. 

OVER  the  river,  on  the  hill, 
Lieth  a  village  white  and  still ; 
All  around  it  the  forest-trees 
Shiver  and  whisper  in  the  breeze ; 
Over  it  sailing  shadows  go 
Of  soaring  hawk  and  screaming  crow, 
And  mountain  grasses,  low  and  sweet, 
Grow  in  the  middle  of  every  street. 

Over  the  river,  under  the  hill, 
Another  village  lieth  still  ; 
There  I  see  in  the  cloudy  night 
Twinkling  stars  of  household  light, 
Fires  that  gleam  from  the  smithy's  door, 
Mists  that  curl  on  the  river-shore  ;  * 

And  in  the  roads  no  grasses  grow, 
For  the  wheels  that  hasten  to  and  fro. 

In  that  village  on  the  hill 

Never  is  sound  of  smithy  or  mill ; 

The  houses  are  thatched  with  grass  and  flowers ; 

Never  a  clock  to  toll  the  hours  ; 

The  marble  doors  are  always  shut ; 

You  cannot  enter  in  hall  or  hut ; 

All  the  villagers  lie  asleep  ; 

Never  a  grain  to  sow  or  reap  ; 

Never  in  dreams  to  moan  or  sigh ; 

Silent  and  idle  and  low  they  lie. 

In  that  village  under  the  hill, 
When  the  night  is  starry  and  still, 
Many  a  weary  soul  in  prayer 
Looks  to  the  other  village  there, 
And  weeping  and  sighing  longs  to  go 
Up  to  that  home  from  this  below ; 
Longs  to  sleep  in  the  forest  wild, 
Whither  have  vanished  wife  and  child, 
And  heareth,  praying,  this  answer  fall  : 
"  Patience  !  that  village  shall  hold  ye  all ! " 


JOHN    TOWNSEND    TROWBR1DGE.  53! 


JOHN    TOWNSEND    TROWBRIDGE. 

John  Townsend  Trowbridge  was  born  in  the  town  of  Ogden,  in  Western  New  York,  Sep- 
tember 18,  1827.  His  father  had  moved  with  his  family  there  a  short  time  before,  crossing 
the  Ganesee  River  on  the  ice,  in  an  ox-sled,  near  where  the  city  of  Rochester  now  stands. 
There  was  no  bridge  then,  and  only  one  house.  The  boy  received  a  common  school  educa- 
tion, and  studied  at  home  also,  applying  himself  to  French  first  and  Latin  and  German  after- 
wards. When  he  was  sixteen  years  old  his  father  died,  and  he  thenceforward  worked  on 
the  farm  and  taught  school  winters  until  he  was  nineteen,  when  he  went  to  New  York 
alone,  where  he  had  neither  friend  nor  acquaintance.  He  had  intended  to  write  for  a  liveli- 
hood, and  soon  became  kno.vn  to  Major  M.  M.  Noah,  then  an  editor  of  a  weekly  paper,  who 
pnve  him  some  encouragement.  His  earnings  were  small,  and  he  had  some  severe  but 
useful  experiences  :  days  of  hard  labor,  a  garret  to  sleep  in,  and  often  only  a  crust  to  eat. 
To  add  to  his  bitter  disappointments,  he  had  the  pain  of  seeing  some  of  his  productions 
printed  and  praised  in  a  certain  magazine,  while  the  remuneration  for  them  that  he  had 
counted  upon  to  save  himself  from  hunger  was  as  inaccessible  as  the  pot  of  gold  buried 
under  the  end  of  a  rainbow.  He  was  not  the  only  poor  author  of  twenty  years  ago  who 
made  the  discovery  that  the  editorial  "  den  "  of  that  magazine  was  a  sort  of  a  Cave  of  Cacus  ; 
no  footsteps  (of  the  paymaster)  ever  leading  out  of  it.  He  found  friends  at  last,  where 
friends  are  oftenest  found,  among  people  of  the  humbler  sort,  and  he  breathed  freer.  He 
removed  to  Boston  in  1848,  and  had  further  experience  with  editors  of  "  literary  "  papers,  of 
which  his  novel,  Martin  Merrivale,  gives  some  comical  hints,  He  had  written  some  tales 
of  his  early  life  on  the  frontier,  and  he  now  found  a  publisher  for  them.  Father  Bright- 
hopes,  Burrcliffj  and  a  few  other  stories  appeared  in  rapid  succession  (1853)  with  the 
name  of  Paul  Creyton  as  author.  They  were  written  for  young  people,  but  they  were  read 
by  all  classes.  They  were  immediately  popular,  and  the  3  oung  author  had  the  precious 
satisfaction  of  learning  that  his  future  was  secure,  because  his  works  had  a  commercial 
value.  His  next  work  was  Martin  Merrivale  (1854),  a  novel  that  possessed  undoubted 
merit,  and  contained  some  most  suggestive  pictures.  As  a  whole,  it  did  not  impress  the 
public  favorably.  He  visited  Europe  in  1855-6,  and  passed  a  year  in  France  and  Italy. 
Neighbor  Jackwood,  one  of  his  most  popular  novels,  was  written  while  he  was  abroad.  Next 
came  The  Old  Battle-Ground  in  1859  ;  and  Cudjoe's  Cave,  a  novel  founded  on  the  adven- 
tures of  an  escaped  slave,  in  1863.  Coupon  Bonds  is  a  story  of  rural  New  England  life, 
with  many  realistic  touches  and  comic  situations.  After  the  war  was  over  he  visited  the 
Southern  States,  and  wrote  a  work,  entitled  The  South,  a  large  volume  of  six  hundred  pages, 

Mr.  Trowbridge  is  equally  well  known  by  his  poetical  writings.  He  contributed  a  num- 
ber of  poems  to  the  Atlantic  Mor.thly  years  ago,  which  drew  the  attention  of  thoughtful 
readers.  Later  he  put  into  verse  several  stories  of  Yankee  character,  of  which  he  is  one  of  the 
most  original  delineators,  and  he  was  quite  as  successful  as  he  had  formerly  been  in  prose. 
His  most  popular  poem,  The  Vagabonds,  was  originally  published  in  the  Atlantic  in  1863, 
and  has  since  appeared  in  book  form,  with  illustrations  by  Barley.  It  is  a  dramatic  sketch, 
clearly  conceived,  sharply  drawn,  full  of  deep  feeling,  and  conveying  a  warning  lesson. 

Mr.  Trowbridge  resides  at  Arlington,  Mass.,  and  occupies  his  time  in  literary  pursuits. 
He  is  the  editor  of  the  juvenile  magazine,  Our  Young  Folks.  His  works  are  published  by 
Messrs.  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co. 

[From  Coupon  Bonds.] 
THE  TROUBLES   OF   MR.    AND   MRS.   DUCKLOW. 

[Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ducklow  are  nervously  anxious  about  some  bonds  which  they  have  secret- 
ly purchased  with  money  that  should  have  been  given  to  their  adopted  son,  Reuben,  a 
soldier,  with  a  young  family,  who  has  sacrificed  his  health  and  his  pecuniary  prospects  in 


532  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

the  service  of  his  country  (1861-4).  Going  to  visit  him,  on  the  morning  after  his  return 
home,  the  careful  couple  leave  their  house  in  charge  of  Tacldy,  another  adopted  son,  the 
bonds  being  concealed  under  the  sitting-room  carpet.  Mrs.  Ducklow  remains  at  Reuben's, 
while  Mr.  Ducklow  sets  out  to  drive  tothe  Railroad  station  for  the  sick  soldier's  trunk.] 

MR.  DUCKLOW  had  scarcely  turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  when 
looking  anxiously  in  the  direction  of  his  homestead,  he  saw  a  column 
of  smoke.  It  was  directly  over  the  spot  where  he  knew  his  house 
to  be  situated.  He  guessed  at  a  glance  what  had  happened.  The 
frightful  catastrophe  he  foreboded  had  befallen.  Taddy  had  set  the 
house  afire. 

"  Them  bonds  !  them  bonds  !  "  he  exclaimed,  distractedly.  He 
did  not  think  so  much  of  the  house  :  house  and  furniture  were 
insured ;  if  they  were  burned,  the  inconvenience  would  be  great 
indeed,  and  at  any  other  time  the  thought  of  such  an  event  would 
have  been  a  sufficient  cause  for  trepidation,  — but  now  his  chief,  his 
only  anxiety  was  the  bonds.  They  were  not  insured.  They  would 
be  a  dead  loss.  And  what  added  sharpness  to  his  pangs,  they  would 
be  a  loss  which  he  must  keep  a  secret,  as  he  had  kept  their  existence 
a  secret  —  a  loss  which  he  could  not  confess,  and  of  which  he  could 
not  complain.  Had  he  not  just  given  his  neighbors  to  understand 
that  he  held  no  such  property  ?  And  his  wife  —  was  she  not  at  that 
very  moment,  if  not  serving  up  a  lie  on  the  subject,  at  least  paring 
the  truth  very  thin  indeed  ? 

"  A  man  would  think,"  observed  Ferring,  "  that  Ducklow  had 
some  o'  them  bonds  on  his  hands,  and  got  scaret,  he  look  such  a 
sudden  start.  He  has,  hasn't  he,  Mrs.  Ducklow  V 

"  Has  what  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  pretending  ignorance. 

"  Some  o'  them  cowpon  bonds.     I  ruther  guess  he's  got  some." 

"  You  mean  Gov'ment  bonds  ?  Ducklow  got  some  ?  'Tain't  at  all 
likely  he'd  spec'late  in  them,  without  saying  something  to  me  about 
it !  No,  he  couldn't  have  any  without  my  knowing  it,  I'm  sure  !  " 

How  demure,  how  innocent  she  looked,  plying  her  knitting-needles, 
and  stopping  to  take  up  a  stitch!  How  little  at  that  moment  she 
knew  of  Ducklow's  trouble,  and  its  terrible  cause  ! 

Ducklow's  first  impulse  was  to  drive  on  and  endeavor  at  all 
hazards  to  snatch  the  bonds  from  the  flames.  His  next  was,  to 
return  and  alarm  his  neighbors,  and  obtain  their  assistance.  But  a 
minute's  delay  might  be  fatal ;  so  he  drove  on,  screaming,  "  Fire  ! 
fire  !  "  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

But  the  old  mare  was  a  slow-footed  animal ;  and  Ducklow  had  no 
whip.  He  reached  forward  and  struck  her  with  the  reins. 


JOHN    TOWNSEND    TROWBRIDGE.  533 

"  Git  up  !  git  up  !  —  Fire  !  fire  !  "  screamed  Ducklow.  "  O,  them 
bonds  !  them  bonds  !  Why  didn't  I  give  the  money  to  Reuben  ? 
Fire  !  fire  !  fire  !  " 

By  dint  of  screaming  and  slapping,  he  urged  her  from  a  trot  into  a 
gallop,  which  was  scarcely  an  improvement  as  to  speed,  and  certain- 
ly not  as  to  grace.  It  was  like  the  gallop  of  an  old  cow.  "Why 
don't  ye  go  'long  !  "  he  cried,  despairingly. 

Slap,  slap  !  He  knocked  his  own  hat  off  with  the  loose  ends  of 
the  reins.  It  fell  under  the  wheels.  He  cast  one  look  behind,  to 
satisfy  himself  that  it  had  been  very  thoroughly  run  over  and  crushed 
into  the  dirt,  and  left  it  to  its  fate. 

Slap,  slap  !  "  Fire,  fire  !  "  Canter,  canter,  canter  !  Neighbors 
looked  out  of  their  windows,  and,  recognizing  Ducklow's  wagon  and 
old  mare  in  such  an  astonishing  plight,  and  Ducklow  himself,  with- 
out his  hat,  rising  from  his  seat,  and  reaching  forward  in  wild  atti- 
tudes, brandishing  the  reins,  at  the  same  time  rending  the  azure  with 
yells,  thought  he  must  be  insane. 

He  drove  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  looking  beyond,  in  expecta- 
tion of  seeing  his  house  wrapped  in  flames,  discovered  that  the 
smoke  proceeded  from  a  brush-heap  which  his  neighbor  Atkins  was 
burning  in  a  field  near  by. 

The  revulsion  of  feeling  that  ensued  was  almost  too  much  for  the 
excitable  Ducklow.  His  strength  went  out  of  him.  For  a  little 
while  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  left  of  him  but  tremor  and  cold 
sweat.  Difficult  as  it  had  been  to  get  the  old  mare  in  motion,  it  was 
now  even  more  difficult  to  stop  her. 

"Why!  what  has  got  into  Ducklow's  old  mare  ?  She's  running 
away  with  him  !  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing !  "  And  Atkins, 
watching  the  ludicrous  spectacle  from  his  field,  became  almost  as 
weak  from  laughter  as  Ducklow  was  from  the  effects  of  fear. 

At  length  Ducklow  succeeded  in  checking  the  old  mare's  speed, 
and  in  turning  her  about.  It  was  necessary  to  drive  back  for  his 
hat.  By  this  time  he  could  hear  a  chorus  of  shouts,  "  Fire  !  fire  ! 
fire  ! "  over  the  hill.  He  had  aroused  the  neighbors  as  he  passed, 
and  now  they  were  flocking  to  extinguish  the  flames. 

"  A  f:ilse  alarm  !  a  false  alarm  !  "  said  Ducklow,  looking  marvel- 
lously sheepish,  as  he  met  them.  "  Nothing  but  Atkins's  brush- 
heap  !  " 

"  Seems  to  me  you  ought  to  have  found  that  out  'fore  you  raised 
all  creation  with  your  yells  !  "  said  one  hyperbolical  fellow.  "  You 
looked  like  the  Flying  Dutchman  !  This  your  hat  ?  I  thought  'twas 


534  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

a  dead  cat  in  the  road.  No  fire,  no  fire  !" — turning  back  to  his 
comrades,  —  "  only  one  of  Ducklow's  jokes." 

Nevertheless,  two  or  three- boys  there  were  who  would  not  be  con- 
vinced, but  continued  to  leap  up,  swing  their  caps,  and  scream, 
"  Fire  !  "  against  all  remonstrance.  Ducklow  did  not  wait  to  enter 
into  explanations,  but,  turning  the  old  mare  about  again,  drove  home 
amid  the  laughter  of  the  bystanders  and  the  screams  of  the  mis- 
guided youngsters.  As  he  approached  the  house,  he  met  Taddy 
rushing  wildly  up  the  street. 

"  Thaddeus  !  Thaddeus  !     Where  ye  goin',  Thaddeus  ?  " 

"  Coin'  to  the  fire  ! "  cried  Taddy. 

"  There  isn't  any  fire,  boy  !  " 

"  Yes,  there  is  !  Didn't  ye  hear  'em  ?  They've  been  yellin'  like 
fury." 

"  It's  nothin'  but  Atkins's  brush." 

"  That  all  ?  "  And  Taddy  appeared  very  much  disappointed.  "  I 
thought  there  was  goin'  to  be  some  fun.  I  wonder  who  was  such  a 
fool  as  to  yell  fire  jest  for  a  darned  old  brush-heap  !  " 

Ducklow  did  not  inform  him. 

"I?ve  got  to  drive  over  to  town  and  git  Reuben's  trunk.  You 
stand  by  the  mare  while  I  step  in  and  brush  my  hat." 

Instead  of  applying  himself  at  once  to  the  restoration  of  his 
beaver,  he  hastened  to  the  sitting-room,  to  see  that  the  bonds 
were  safe. 

"  Heavens  and  'arth  !  "  said  Ducklow. 

The  chair,  which  had  been  carefully  planted  in  the  spot  where 
they  were  concealed,  had  been  removed.  Three  or  four  tacks  had 
been  taken  out,  and  the  carpet  pushed  from  the  wall.  There  was 
straw  scattered  about.  Evidently  Taddy  had  been  interrupted,  in 
the  midst  of  his  ransacking,  by  the  alarm  of  fire.  Indeed,  he  was 
even  now  creeping  into  the  house  to  see  what  notice  Ducklow  would 
take  of  these  evidences  of  his  mischief. 

In  great  trepidation  the  farmer  thrust  in  his  hand  here  and  there, 
and  groped,  until  he  found  the  envelope  precisely  where  it  had  been 
placed  the  night  before,  with  the  tape  tied  around  it,  which  his  wife 
had  put  on  to  prevent  its  contents  from  slipping  out  and  losing  them- 
selves. Great  was  the  joy  of  Ducklow.  Great  also  was  the  wrath 
of  him,  when  he  turned  and  discovered  Taddy. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  stand  by  the  old  mare  ?" 

"  She  won't  stir,"  said  Taddy,  shrinking  away  again. 

"  Come  here  !  "  and  Ducklow  grasped  him  by  the  collar.  "What 
have  you  been  doin'  ?  Look  at  that ! " 


JOHN    TOWNSEND    TROWBRIDGE.  53$ 

"  'Twan't  me ! "  beginning  to  whimper,  and  ram  his  fists  into 
his  eyes. 

"  Don't  tell  me't  wan't  you  !  "  Ducklow  shook  him  till  his  teeth 
chattered.  "  What  was  you  pullin'  up  the  carpet  for  ?  " 

"  Lost  a  marble  !  "  snivelled  Taddy. 

"Lost  a  marble!  Ye  didn't  lose  it  under  the  carpet  —  did  ye? 
Look  at  all  that  straw  pulled  out  !  "  shaking  him  again. 

"  Didn't  know  but  it  might  'a'  got  under  the  carpet,  marbles  roll 
so,"  explained  Taddy,  as  soon  as  he  could  get  his  breath. 

"  Wai,  sir  !  "  Ducklow  administered  a  resounding  box  on  his  ear. 
"  Don't  you  do  such  a  thing  again,  if  you  lose  a  million  marbles  !  " 

"  Hain't  got  a  million  !  "  Taddy  wept,  rubbing  his  cheek.  "  Hain't 
got  but  four  !  Won't  ye  buy  me  some  to-day  ? " 

"  Go  to  that  mare,  and  don't  you  leave  her  again  till  I  come,  or 
I'll  marble  ye  in  a  way  you  won't  like  !  " 

Understanding,  by  this  somewhat  equivocal  form  of  expression, 
that  flagellation  was  threatened,  Taddy  obeyed,  still  feeling  his 
smarting  and  burning  ear. 

Ducklow  was  in  trouble.  What  should  he  do  with  the  bonds  ? 
The  floor  was  no  place  for  them,  after  what  had  happened  ;  and  he 
remembered  too  well  the  experience  of  yesterday  to  think  for  a 
moment  of  carrying  them  about  his  person.  With  unreasonable  im- 
patience, his  mind  reverted  to  Mrs.  Ducklow. 

"  Why  ain't  she  to  home  ?  These  women  are  forever  a-gaddin' ! 
I  wish  Reuben's  trunk  was  in  Jericho  !  " 

Thinking  of  the  trunk  reminded  him  of  one  in  the  garret,  filled 
with  old  papers  of  all  sorts,  —  newspapers,  letters,  bills  of  sale, 
children's  writing-books,  —  accumulations  of  the  past  quarter  of  a 
century.  Neither  fire,  nor  burglar,  nor  ransacking  youngster  had 
ever  molested  those  ancient  records  during  all  those  five  and  twenty 
years.  A  bright  thought  struck  him. 

"  I'll  slip  the  bonds  down  into  that  wuthless  heap  o?  rubbish, 
where  no  one  'ud  ever  think  o'  lookin'  for  'em,  and  resk  'em." 

Having  assured  himself  that  Taddy  was  standing  by  the  wagon, 
he  paid  a  hasty  visit  to  the  trunk  in  the  garret,  and  concealed  the 
envelope,  still  bound  in  its  band  of  tape,  among  the  papers.  He 
then  drove  away,  giving  Taddy  a  final  charge  to  beware  of  setting 
anything  afire. 

He  had  driven  about  half  a  mile  when  he  met  a  peddler.  There 
was  nothing  unusual  or  alarming  in  such  a  circumstance,  surely  ;  but 
as  Ducklow  kept  on,  it  troubled  him. 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

"  He'll  stop  to  the  house  now,  most  likely,  and  want  to  trade. 
Findin'  nobody  but  Taddy,  there's  no  knowin'  what  he'll  be  tempted 
to  do.  But  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  worry.  I'll  defy  anybody  to  find  them 
bonds.  Besides,  she  may  be  home  by  this  time.  I  guess  she'll 
hear  of  the  fire-alarm,  and  hurry  home  :  it'll  be  jest  like  her.  She'll 
be  there,  and  —  trade  with  the  peddler  ?  "  thought  Ducklow,  uneasily. 
Then  a  frightful  fancy  possessed  him.  "  She  has  threatened  two  or 
three  times  to  sell  that  old  trunkful  of  papers.  He'll  offer  a  big 
price  for  'em,  and  ten  to  one  she'll  let  him  have  'em.  Why  didrft  I 
think  on't  ?  What  a  stupid  blunderbuss  I  be  !  " 

As  Ducklow  thought  of  it,  he  felt  almost  certain  that  Mrs.  Duck- 
low  had  returned  home,  and  that  she  was  bargaining  with  the  ped- 
dler at  that  moment.  He  fancied  her  smilingly  receiving  bright  tin- 
ware for  the  old  papers  ;  and  he  could  see  the  tape-tied  envelope 
going  into  the  bag  with  the  rest !  The  result  was,  that  he  turned 
about  and  whipped  the  old  mare  home  again  in  terrific  haste,  to 
catch  the  departing  peddler. 

Arriving,  he  found  the  house  as  he  had  left  it,  and  Taddy  occupied 
in  making  a  kite-frame. 

"  Did  that  peddler  stop  here  ? " 

"  I  hain't  seen  no  peddler." 

"And  hain't  yer  Ma  Ducklow  been  home,  neither  ?  " 

"  No." 

And  with  a  guilty  look,  Taddy  put  the  kite-frame  behind  him. 

Ducklow  considered.  The  peddler  had  turned  up  a  cross-street : 
he  would  probably  turn  down  again  and  stop  at  the  'house,  after  all : 
Mrs.  Ducklow  might  by  that  time  be  at  home  :  then  the  sale  of  old 
papers  would  be  very  likely  to  take  place.  Ducklow  thought  of 
leaving  word  that  he  did  not  wish  any  old  papers  in  the  house  to  be 
sold,  but  feared  lest  the  request  might  excite  Taddy's  suspicions. 

"  I  don't  see  no  way  but  for  me  to  take  the  bonds  with  me," 
thought  he,  with  an  inward  groan. 

He  accordingly  went  to  the  garret,  took  the  envelope  out  of  the 
trunk,  and  placed  it  in  the  breast-pocket  of  his  overcoat,  to  which 
he  pinned  it,  to  prevent  it  by  any  chance  from  getting  out.  He 
used  six  large,  strong  pins  for  the  purpose,  and  was  afterwards  sorry 
he  did  not  use  seven. 

"  There's  suthin'  losin'  out  of  yer  pocket !  "  bawled  Taddy,  as  he 
was  once  more  mounting  the  wagon. 

Quick  as  lightning,  Ducklow  clapped  his  hand  to  his  breast.  In 
doing  so  he  loosed  his  hold  of  the  wagon-box  and  fell,  raking  his 
shin  badly  on  the  wheel. 


JOHN    TOWNSEND    TROWBRIDGE.  537 

"  Yer  side-pocket !     It's  one  o'  yer  mittens  !  "  said  Taddy. 

"  You  rascal !  how  you  scared  me  !  " 

Seating  himself  in  the  wagon,  Ducklovv  gently  pulled  up  his 
trousers-leg  to  look  at  the  bruised  part. 

"  Got  anything  in  yer  boot-leg  to-day,  Pa  Ducklovv  ? "  asked 
Taddy,  innocently. 

"Yes,  a  barked  shin  !  — all  on  your  account,  too  !  Go  and  put 
that  straw  back,  and  fix  the  carpet ;  and  don't  ye  let  me  hear  ye 
speak  of  my  boot-leg  again,  or  I'll  boot- teg  ye  !  " 

So  saying,  Ducklow  departed. 

Instead  of  repairing  the  mischief  he  had  done  in  the  sitting-room, 
Taddy  devoted  his  time  and  talents  to  the  more  interesting  occupa- 
tion of  constructing  his  kite-frame.  He  worked  at  that,  until  Mr. 
Grantley,  the  minister,  driving  by,  stopped  to  inquire  how  the  folks 
were. 

"  Ain't  to  home  :  may  I  ride  ?  "  cried  Taddy,  all  in  a  breath. 

Mr.  Grantley  was  an  indulgent  old  gentleman,  fond  of  children ; 
so  he  said,  "  Jump  in  ;  "  and  in  a  minute  Taddy  had  scrambled  to  a 
seat  by  his  side. 

And  now  occurred  a  circumstance  which  Ducklow  had  foreseen. 
The  alarm  of  fire  had  reached  Reuben's  ;  and  although  the  report 
of  its  falseness  followed  immediately,  Mrs.  Ducklow's  inflammable 
fancy  was  so  kindled  by  it  that  she  could  find  no  comfort  in  prolong- 
ing her  visit. 

"  Mr.  Ducklow'll  be  going  for  the  trunk,  and  I  must  go  home 
and  see  to  things,  Taddy's  such  a  fellow  for  mischief!  I  can  foot  it ; 
I  shan't  mind  it." 

And  off  she  started,  walking  herself  out  of  breath  in  her  anxiety. 

She  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill  just  in  time  to  see  a  chaise  drive 
away  from  her  own  door. 

"  Who  can  that  be  ?  I  wonder  if  Taddy's  there  to  guard  the 
house  !  If  anything  should  happen  to  them  bonds  !  " 

Out  of  breath  as  she  was,  she  quickened  her  pace,  and  trudged 
on,  flushed,  perspiring,  panting,  until  she  reached  the  house. 

"  Thadcleus  !  "  she  called. 

No  Taddy  answered.  She  went  in.  The  house  was  deserted. 
And  lo  !  the  carpet  torn  up,  and  the  bonds  abstracted  ! 

Mr.  Ducklow  never  would  have  'made  such  work,  removing  the 
bonds.  Then  somebody  else  must  have  taken  them,  she  reasoned. 

"The  man  in  the  chaise!"  she  exclaimed,  or  rather  made  an 
effort  to  exclaim,  succeeding  only  in  bringing  forth  a  hoarse,  gasping 
sound.  Fear  dried  up  articulation.  Vox  faucibus  hcssit. 


HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS.- 

And  Taddy  ?  He  had  disappeared  ;  been  murdered,  perhaps  —  or 
gagged  and  carried  away  by  the  man  in  the  chaise. 

Mrs.  Ducklow  flew  hither  and  thither  (to  use  a  favorite  phrase  of 
her  own),  "  like  a  hen  with  her  head  cut  off;  "  then  rushed  out  of 
the  house,  and  up  the  street,  screaming  after  the  chaise,  — 

"  Murder  !  murder  !     Stop  thief!  stop  thief!  " 

She  waved  her  hands  aloft  in  the  air  frantically.  If  she  had 
trudged  before,  now  she  trotted,  now  she  cantered  ;  but  if  the  canter- 
ing of  the  old  mare  was  fitly  likened  to  that  of  a  cow,  to  what  thing, 
to  what  manner  of  motion  under  the  sun,  shall  we  liken  the  canter- 
ing of  Mrs.  Ducklow  ?  It  was  original ;  it  was  unique  ;  it  was  pro- 
digious. Now,  with  her  frantically  waving  hands,  and  all  her  un- 
dulating and  flapping  skirts,  she  seemed  a  species  of  huge,  unwieldy 
bird  attempting  to  fly.  Then  she  sank  down  into  a  heavy,  dragging 
walk,  — breath  and  strength  all  gone,  —  no  voice  left  even  to  scream 
murder.  Then  the  awful  realization  of  the  loss  of  the  bonds  once 
more  rushing  over  her,  she  started  up  again.  "  Half  running,  half 
flying,  what  progress  she  made  !  "  Then  Atkins's  dog  saw  her,  and, 
naturally  mistaking  her  for  a  prodigy,  came  out  at  her,  bristling  up 
and  bounding  and  barking  terrifically. 

"  Come  here  !  "  cried  Atkins,  following  the  dog.  "  What's  the 
matter  ?  What's  to  pay,  Mrs.  Ducklow  ?  " 

Attempting  to  speak,  the  good  woman  could  only  pant  and  wheeze. 

"  Robbed  ! "  she  at  last  managed  to  whisper,  amid  the  yelpings  of 
the  cur  that  refused  to  be  silenced. 

"Robbed?     How?     Who?" 

"  The  chaise.     Ketch  it." 

Her  gestures  expressed  more  than  her  words  ;  and  Atkins's  horse 
and  wagon,  with  which  he  had  been  drawing  out  brush,  being  in  the 
yard  near  by,  he  ran  to  them,  leaped  to  the  seat,  drove  into  the  road, 
took  Mrs.  Ducklow  aboard,  and  set  out  in  vigorous  pursuit  of  the 
slow  two  wheeled  vehicle. 

"  Stop,  you,  sir  !  Stop,  you,  sir  !  "  shrieked  Mrs.  Ducklow,  hav- 
ing recovered  her  breath  by  the  time  they  came  up  with  the  chaise. 

It  stopped,  and  Mr.  Grantley,  the  minister,  put  out  his  good- 
natured,  surprised  face. 

"  You've  robbed  my  house  !     You've  took  —  " 

Mrs.  Ducklow  was  going  on  in  wild,  accusatory  accents,  when  she 
recognized  the  benign  countenance. 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  I  have  robbed  you  ? "  he  exclaimed,  very 
much  astonished. 


JOHN    TOWNSEND   TROWBRIDGE.  539 

"  No,  no  !  not  you  !  You  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing  !  "  she  stam- 
mered forth,  while  Atkins,  who  had  laughed  himself  weak  at  Mr. 
Ducklow's  plight  earlier  in  the  morning,  now  laughed  himself  into  a 
side-ache  at  Mrs.  Ducklow's  ludicrous  mistake.  "But  did  you  — 
did  you  stop  at  my  house  ?  Have  you  seen  our  Thaddeus  ?  " 

"  Here  I  be,  Ma  Ducklow  !  "  piped  a  small  voice  ;  and  Taddy,  who 
had  till  then  remained  hidden,  fearing  punishment,  peeped  out  of  the 
chaise  from  behind  the  broad  back  of  the  minister. 

"  Taddy  !  Taddy  !  how  came  the  carpet  —  " 

"  I  pulled  it  up,  huntin'  for  a  marble,"  said  Taddy,  as  she  paused, 
overmastered  by  her  emotions. 

"And  the  —  the  thing  tied  up  in  a  brown  wrapper?" 

"  Pa  Ducklow  took  it." 

"Ye  sure?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  seen  him  !  " 

"O,  dear!"  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  "I  never  was  so  beat!  Mr 
Grantley,  I  hope  —  excuse  me  —  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  about ! 
Taddy,  you  notty  boy,  what  did  you  leave  the  house  for  ?  Be  ye 
quite  sure  yer  Pa  Ducklow  —  " 

Taddy  repeated  that  he  was  quite  sure,  as  he  climbed  from  the 
chaise  into  Atkins's  wagon.  The  minister  smilingly  remarked  that 
he  hoped  she  would  find  no  robbery  had  been  committed,  and  went 
his  way.  Atkins,  driving  back,  and  setting  her  and  Teddy  down  at 
the  Ducklow  gate,  answered  her  embarrassed  "  Much  obleeged  to 
ye,"  with  a  sincere  "  Not  at  all,"  considering  the  fun  he  had  had  a 
sufficient  compensation  for  his  trouble.  And  thus  ended  the  morn- 
ing's adventures,  with  the  exception  of  an  unimportant  episode,  in 
which  Taddy,  Mrs.  Ducklow,  and  Mrs.  Ducklow's  rattan  were  the 
principal  actors. 

[From  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  March,  1858.] 
BEAUTY. 

FOND  lover  of  the  Ideal  Fair, 
My  soul,  eluded  everywhere, 
Is  lapsed  into  a  sweet  despair. 

Perpetual  pilgrim,  seeking  ever, 
Baffled,  enamoured,  rinding  never ; 
Each  morn  the  cheerful  chase  renewing, 
Misled,  bewildered,  still  pursuing  ; 
Not  all  my  lavished  years  have  bought 
One  steadfast  smile  from  her  I  sought, 


54O       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

But  sidelong  glances,  glimpsing  light, 
A  something  far  too  fine  for  sight, 
Veiled  voices,  far-off  thridding  strains, 
And  precious  agonies  and  pains : 
Not  love,  but  only  love's  dear  wound 
And  exquisite  unrest  I  found. 

At  early  morn  I  saw  her  pass 

The  lone  lake's  blurred  and  quivering  glass ; 

Her  trailing  veil  of  amber  mist 

The  unbending  beaded  clover  kissed ; 

And  straight  I  hasted  to  waylay 

Her  coming  by  the  willowy  way  ;  — 

But,  swift  companion  of  the  Dawn, 

She  left  her  footprints  on  the  lawn, 

And,  in  arriving,  she  was  gone. 

Alert  I  ranged  the  winding  shore  ; 

Her  luminous  presence  flashed  before  ; 

The  wild-rose  and  the  daisies  wet 

From  her  light  touch  were  trembling  yet ; 

Faint  smiled  the  conscious  violet ; 

Each  bush  and  brier  and  rock  betrayed 

Some  tender  sign  her  parting  made  ; 

And  when  far  on  her  flight  I  tracked 

To  where  the  thunderous  cataract 

O'er  walls  of  foamy  ledges  broke, 

She  vanished  in  the  vapory  smoke. 

To-night  I  pace  this  pallid  floor, 
The  sparkling  waves  curl  up  the  shore, 
The  August  moon  is  flushed  and  full ; 
The  soft,  low  winds,  the  liquid  lull, 
The  whited,  silent,  misty  realm, 
The  wan-blue  heaven,  each  ghostly  elm, 
All  these,  her  ministers,  conspire 
To  fill  my  bosom  with  the  fire 
And  sweet  delirium  of  desire. 
Enchantress  !  leave  thy  sheeny  height, 
Descend,  be  all  mine  own  this  night, 
Transfuse,  enfold,  entrance  me  quite ! 
Or  break  thy  spell,  my  heart  restore, 
And  disenchant  me  evermore  ! 


CHARLES    DUDLEY    WARNER.  54! 


CHARLES   DUDLEY   WARNER. 

Charles  Dudley  Warner  was  born  in  Plainfield,  Mass.,  September  12,  1829.  He  attended 
a  seminary  in  Cazenovia,  N.  Y.,  and  was  afterwards  graduated  at  Hamilton  College  in 
1851.  He  spent  a  couple  of  years  on  the  western  frontier  with  a  surveying  party  ;  afterwards 
studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  Philadelphia.  He  practised  his  profession  for  a 
time  at  Chicago,  and  in  1860  removed  to  Hartford,  Conn.,  where  he  has  since  resided.  He 
became  connected  with  the  Evening  Press,  as  an  assistant  editor,  and  afterwards  with  the 
Courant.  He  was  a  contributor  to  Putnam's  Monthly  and  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine, 
and  in  1870  wrote  a  series  of  sketches  for  the  Hartford  Courant,  entitled  My  Summer  in  a 
Garden,  since  collected  in  a  volume.  He  has  written  another  series  of  sketches,  or  essays 
rather,  for  Scribner's  Monthly,  entitled  Back  Log  Studies.  A  volume  of  his  notes  of  travel 
(made  in  1868)  was  published  in  1872,  with  the  title  of  Saunterings. 

Mr.  Warner  is  a  humorist  of  an  original  character.  He  is  a  trifle  too  fond  of  puns,  of 
verbal  quibbles  rather,  —  for  a  pun  that  strikes  out  a  spark  of  wit  in  the  clash  of  double 
meanings  we  hold  to  be  praiseworthy,  in  spite  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  Bulwer  Lytton,  —  and 
he  gives  prominence  to  political  and  personal  allusions  which  will  soon  require  notes  for 
their  elucidation,  when  some  of  the  persons  in  office  are  forgotten.  But  the  fun  of  his  views 
of  nature  is  genuine ;  the  garden  experiences  bear  re-reading,  which  is  the  proof  of  their 
quality.  In  the  case  of  many  books  of  comic  intention  a  single  glance  takes  in  the  proffered 
jokes  ;  the  wit  is  exhaled,  and  the  pages  are  thenceforth  as  stale  as  exploitred  conundrums. 
The  works  of  the  true  humorist  renew  their  freshness,  and,  like  our  author's  garden,  though 
often  traversed,  are  dewy  and  fragrant  with  each  new  day. 

The  Back-Log  Studies  promise  to  be  equally  charming ;  they  have  a  deeper  vein  of 
thought,  and  the  touches  of  sentiment  that  give  to  humor  its  natural  relief. 

MY   SUMMER   IN   A   GARDEN. 

THE  love  of  dirt  is  among  the  earliest  of  passions,  as  it  is  the 
latest.  Mud  pies  gratify  one  of  our  first  and  best  instincts.  So  long 
as  we  are  dirty  we  are  pure.  Fondness  for  the  ground  comes  back 
to  a  man  after  he  has  run  the  round  of  pleasure  and  business,  eaten 
dirt,  and  sown  wild  oats,  drifted  about  the  world,  and  taken  the  wind 
of  all  its  moods.  The  love  of  digging  in  the  ground  (or  of  looking 
on  while  he -pays  another  to  dig)  is  as  sure  to  come  back  to  him  as 
he  is  sure,  at  last,  to  go  under  the  ground,  and  stay  there.  To  own 
a  bit  of  ground,  to  scratch  it  with  a  hoe,  to  plant  seeds,  and  watch 
their  renewal  of  life,  —  this  is  the  commonest  delight  of  the  race,  the 
most  satisfactory  thing  a  man  can  do. 

Let  us  celebrate  the  soil.  Most  men  toil  that  they  may  own  a 
piece  of  it ;  they  measure  their  success  in  life  by  their  ability  to  buy 
it.  It  is  alike  the  passion  of  the  parvenu  and  the  pride  of  the  aris- 
tocrat. Broad  acres  are  a  patent  of  nobility ;  and  no  man  but  feels 
more  of  a  man  in  the  world  if  he  have  a  bit  of  ground  that  he  can 
call  his  own.  However  small  it  is  on  the  surface,  it  is  four  thousand 
miles  deep  ;  and  that  is  a  very  handsome  property.  And  there  is  a 


542       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

great  pleasure  in  working  in  the  soil,  apart  from  the  ownership  of  it. 
The  man  who  has  planted  a  garden  feels  that  he  has  done  something 
for  the  good  of  the  world.  He  belongs  to  the  producers.  It  is  a 
pleasure  to  eat  of  the  fruit  of  one's  toil,  if  it  be  nothing  more  than  a 
head  of  lettuce  or  an  ear  of  corn.  One  cultivates  a  lawn  even  with 
great  satisfaction,  for  there  is  nothing  more  beautiful  than  grass  and 
turf  in  our  latitude.  The  tropics  may  have  their  delights,  but  they 
have  not  turf ;  and  the  world  without  turf  is  a  dreary  desert.  The 
original  garden  of  Eden  could  not  have  had  such  turf  as  one  sees  in 
England.  The  Teutonic  races  all  loye  turf :  they  emigrate  in  the 
line  of  its  growth. 

To  dig  in  the  mellow  soil  —  to  dig  moderately,  for  all  pleasure 
should  be  taken  sparingly  —  is  a  great  thing.  One  gets  strength 
out  of  the  ground  as  often  as  one  really  touches  it  with  a  hoe.  An- 
taeus (this  is  a  classical  article)  was  no  doubt  an  agriculturist ;  and 
such  a  prize-fighter  as  Hercules  could  not  do  anything  with  him  till 
he  got  him  to  lay  down  his  spade,  and  quit  the  soil.  It  is  not  sim- 
ply beets,  and  potatoes,  and  corn,  and  string-beans  that  one  raises  in 
his  well-hoed  garden  :  it  is  the  average  of  human  life.  There  is  life 
in  the  ground  ;  it  goes  into  the  seeds  ;  and  it  also,  when  it  is  stirred 
up,  goes  into  the  man  who  stirs  it.  The  hot  sun  on  his  back  as  he 
bends  to  his  shovel  and  hoe,  or  contemplatively  rakes  the  warm 
and  fragrant  loam,  is  better  than  much  medicine.  The  buds  are 
coming  out  on  the  bushes  round  about ;  the  blossoms  of  the  fruit- 
trees  begin  to  show ;  the  blood  is  running  up  the  grape-vines  in 
streams  ;  you  can  smell  the  wild  flowers  on  the  near  bank ;  and  the 
birds  are  flying,  and  glancing,  and  singing  everywhere.  To  the  open 
kitchen  door  comes  the  busy  housewife  to  shake  a  white  something, 
and  stands  a  moment  to  look,  quite  transfixed  by  the  delightful 
sights  and  sounds.  Hoeing  in  the  garden  on  a  bright,  soft  May  day, 
when  you  are  not  obliged  to,  is  nearly  equal  to  the  delight  of  going 
trouting. 

Blessed  be  agriculture  !  if  one  does  not  have  too  much  of  it.  All 
literature  is  fragrant  with  it,  in  a  gentlemanly  way.  At  the  foot  of 
the  charming  olive-covered  hills  of  Tivoli,  Horace  (not  he  of  Chap- 
paqua)  had  a  sunny  farm  :  it  was  in  sight  of  Hadrian's  villa,  who 
did  landscape  gardening  on  an  extensive  scale,  and  probably  did  not 
get  half  as  much  comfort  out  of  it  as  Horace  did  from  his  more  sim- 
ply tilled  acres.  We  trust  that  Horace  did  a  little  hoeing  and  farm- 
ing himself,  and  that  his  verse  is  not  all  fraudulent  sentiment.  In 
order  to  enjoy  agriculture,  you  do  not  want  too  much  of  it,  and  you 


CHARLES    DUDLEY    WARNER.  543 

want  to  be  poor  enough  to  have  a  little  inducement  to  work  moder- 
ately yourself.  Hoe  while  it  is  spring,  and  enjoy  the  best  anticipa*1 
tions.  It  is  not  much  matter  if  things  do  not  turn  out  well. 

This  matter  of  vegetable  rank  has  not  been  at  all  studied  as  it 
should  be.  Why  do  we  respect  some  vegetables,  and  despise  others, 
when  all  of  them  come  to  an  equal  honor  or  ignominy  on  the  table  ? 
The  bean  is  a  graceful,  confiding,  engaging  vine  ;  but  you  never  can 
put  beans  into  poetry,  nor  into  the  highest  sort  of  prose.  There  is 
no  dignity  in  the  bean.  Corn,  which  in  my  garden  grows  alongside 
the  bean,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  with  no  affectation  of  superiority, 
is,  however,  the  child  of  song.  It  waves  in  all  literature.  But  mix 
it  with  beans,  and  its  high  tone  is  gone.  Succotash  is  vulgar.  It  is 
the  bean  in  it.  The  bean  is  a  vulgar  vegetable,  without  culture,  or 
any  flavor  of  high  society  among  vegetables.  Then  there  is  the  cool 
cucumber,  like  so  many  people  —  good  for  nothing  when  it  is  ripe, 
and  the  wildness  has  gone  out  of  it.  How  inferior  in  quality  it  is  to 
the  melon,  which  grows  upon  a  similar  vine,  is  of  a  like  watery  con- 
sistency, but  is  not  half  so  valuable  !  The  cucumber  is  a  sort  of  low 
comedian  in  a  company  where  the  melon  is  a  minor  gentleman.  I 
might  also  contrast  the  celery  with  the  potato.  The  associations  are 
as  opposite  as  the  dining-room  of  the  duchess  and  the  cabin  of  the 
peasant.  I  admire  the  potato,  both  in  vine  and  blossom  ;  but  it  is 
not  aristocratic. 

The  lettuce  is  to  me  a  most  interesting  study.  Lettuce  is  like 
conversation  :  it  must  be  fresh  and  crisp,  so  sparkling  that  you 
scarcely  notice  the  bitter  in  it.  Lettuce,  like  most  talkers,  is,  how- 
ever, apt  to  run  rapidly  to  seed.  Blessed  is  that  sort  which  comes 
to  a  head,  and  so  remains,  like  a  few  people  I  know  ;  growing  more 
solid,  and  satisfactory,  and  tender  at  the  same  time,  and  whiter  at 
the  centre,  and  crisp  in  their  maturity.  Lettuce,  like  conversation, 
requires  a  good  deal  of  oil,  to  avoid  friction,  and  keep  the  company 
smooth  :  a  pinch  of  Attic  salt,  a  dash  of  pepper,  a  quantity  of  mus- 
tard and  vinegar,  by  all  means,  but  so  mixed  that  you  will  notice  no 
sharp  contrasts,  and  a  trifle  of  sugar.*  You  can  put  anything,  and 
the  more  things  the  better,  into  salad,  as  into  a  conversation,  but 
everything  depends  upon  the  skill  of  mixing.  I  feel  that  I  am  in  the 
best  society  when  I  am  with  lettuce.  It  is  in  the  select  circle  of 
vegetables.  The  tomato  appears  well  on  the  table  ;  but  you  do  not 
want  to  ask  its  origin.  It  is  a  most  agreeable  parvenu.  Of  course 

*  Against  the  heresy  of  sugar  I  protest.  —  EDITOR. 


544  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

I  have  said  nothing  about  the  berries.  They  live  in  another  and 
more  ideal  region  ;  except,  perhaps,  the  currant.  Here  we  see  that, 
even  among  berries,  there  are  degrees  of  breeding.  The  currant  is 
well  enough,  clear  as  truth,  and  exquisite  in  color  ;  but  I  ask  you  to 
notice  how  far  it  is  from  the  exclusive  hauteur  of  the  aristocratic 
strawberry,  and  the  native  refinement  of  the  quietly  elegant  rasp- 
berry. 


HELEN  (FISKE)   HUNT. 

Helen  (Fiske)  Hunt,  daughter  of  the  late  Professor  Nathan  W.  Fiske,  of  Amherst 
College,  was  born  in  Amherst,  Mass.,  in  1831.  She  was  married  to  Major  Edward  B. 
Hunt,  U.  S.  A.,  an  eminent  officer  of  engineers,  and  assistant  professor  at  V/est  Point,  who 
was  killed  in  1863  by  a  premature  explosion  while  experimenting  with  a  submarine  battery 
of  his  own  invention.  Mrs.  Hunt  resides  at  Newport,  R.  I.  She  has  published  a  volume 
of  poems,  called  Verses  by  H.  H.  (1871),  and  a  collection  of  foreign  sketches,  entitled  Bits 
of  Travel  (1872).  The  prose  sketches  are  singularly  fresh,  suggestive,  and  charming.  They 
appear  to  consist  of  the  brilliant  passages  of  the  author's  note-book,  with  the  details  of  the 
itinerary  omitted.  The  poems  are  deserving  of  a  careful  analysis.  They  have  a  marked 
individuality,  saving  only  the  occasional  resemblances  to  Emerson,  which  hardly  any  thought- 
ful poet  of  our  time  can  avoid.  The  topics  chosen  and  the  mode  of  treatment  show  an 
original  and  powerful  mind.  The  marvellous  subtilty  of  thought  challenges  the  reader's 
undivided  attention  in  his  best  moments,  while  the  analogies  between  the  outer  and  inner 
world  touch  his  soul  with  perpetual  surprises.  Some  of  the  poems  are  too  weighty  with 
meaning  to  admit  of  free  and  melodious  movement.  Excepting  Mrs.  Browning,  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  any  woman,  at  least  in  our  day,  has  written  poetry  so  informed  with  spiritual 
truth,  so  free  from  all  extraneous  elements,  so  glowing  with  the  highest  beauty. 

[From  Bits  of  Travel] 
A  MAY-DAY   IN   ALBANO. 

WE  went  Maying  on  donkeys,  and  we  found  more  flowers  than 
could  have  been  picked  in  a  month.  What  a  May-day  for  people 
who  had  all  their  lives  before  gone  Maying  in  india-rubbers,  and 
an  east  wind,  on  the  Atlantic  coast  of  America ;  had  been  glad  and 
grateful  over  a  few  saxifrages  and  houstonias,  and  knelt  in  ecstasy 
if  they  found  a  shivering  clump  of  dog-tooth  violets  ! 

Our  donkey  man  looked  so  like  a  New  Englander  that  I  have  an 
uncomfortable  curiosity  about  him  :  slim,  thin,  red-haired,  freckled, 
blue-eyed,  hollow-chested,  I  believe  he  had  run  away  in  his  youth 
from  Barnstable,  and  drifted  to  the  shores  of  the  Alban  Lake. 
I  watched  him  in  vain  to  discover  any  signs  of  his  understanding 
our  conversation,  but  I  am  sure  I  heard  him  say  "gee"  to  the 
donkeys. 

The  donkey  boy,  too,  had  New  England  eyes,  honest  dark  blue 


HELEN    FISKE    HUNT.  545 

gray,  with  perpetual  laugh  in  them.  It  was  for  his  eyes  I  took  him 
along,  he  being  as  superfluous  as  a  fifth  leg  to  the  donkey.  But 
when  he  danced  up  and  down  with  bare  feet  on  the  stones  in  front 
of  the  hotel  door,  and  twisted  and  untwisted  his  dirty  little  fingers  in 
agony  of  fear  lest  I  should  say  no,  all  the  while  looking  up  into  my 
face  with  a  hopeful,  imploring  smile,  so  like  one  I  shall  never  see 
again,  I  loved  him,  and  engaged  him  then  and  there  always  to  walk 
by  my  donkey's  nose  so  long  as  I  rode  donkeys  in  Albano.  I  had 
no  sooner  done  this  than,  presto,  my  boy  disappeared,  and  all  I  could 
see  in  his  stead  was  a  sort  of  human  pin-wheel,  with  ten  dangerous 
toes  for  spokes,  flying  round  and  round  by  my  side.  What  a  pleased 
Italian  boy,  aged  eleven,  can  do  in  the  way  of  revolving  somersets 
passes  belief,  even  while  you  are  looking  at  it.  But  in  a  moment  he 
came  down  right  end  up,  and,  with  the  air  of  a  mature  protector, 
took  my  donkey  by  the  rope,  and  off  we  went. 

I  never  find  myself  forming  part  of  a  donkey,  with  a  donkey  man 
in  rear,  without  being  reminded  of  all  the  pictures  I  have  seen  of  the 
"  Flight  into  Egypt,"  and  being  impressed  anew  with  a  sense  of  the 
terrible  time  that  Holy  Family  must  have  had  trying  to  make  haste 
on  such  kind  of  animal :  of  all  beasts,  to  escape  from  a  hostile  mon- 
arch on  !  And  one  never  pities  Joseph  any  more  for  having  to  go 
on  foot ;  except  for  the  name  of  the  thing,  walking  must  always  be 
easier.  .  .  . 

On  the  left  hand  you  look  down  into  the  mystic  lake,  which  is 
always  dark  and  troubled,  no  matter  how  blue  the  sky  ;  never  did  I 
see  a  smile  or  a  placid  look  of  rest  on  the  Alban  Lake.  Doubtless 
it  is  still  linked  with  fates  and  oracles  we  do  not  know.  On  the 
right  hand  the  hill  stretches  up,  sometimes  sharply  in  cliffs,  some- 
>  times  in  gentle  slopes  with  moist  hollows  full  of  ivies  and  ferns  ; 
everywhere  are  flowers  in  clusters,  beds,  thickets.  It  seemed  paltry 
to  think  of  putting  a  few  into  a  basket,  hopeless  to  try  to  call  the  roll 
of  their  names.  .  .  . 

The  holly  was  in  blossom,  and  the  white-thorn,  and  huge  bushes 
of  yellow-broom  swung  out  across  our  path  at  every  turn  ;  we  thought 
they  must  light  it  up  at  night.  Here  and  there  were  communities 
of  crimson  cyclamens,  that  most  bewildering  of  all  Italy's  flowers  ; 
"mad  violets"  the  Italians  call  them,  and  there  is  a  pertinence  in 
that  name.  They  hang  their  heads  and  look  down  as  if  no  violet 
could  be  more  shy,  but  all  the  while  their  petals  turn  back  like  the 
ears  of  a  vicious  horse,  and  their  whole  expression  is  of  the  most 
fascinating  mixture  of  modesty  and  mischief.  Always  with  the  cyc- 
35 


546       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

lamens  we  found  the  forget-me-nots,  nodding  above  the  fringing 
canopies  of  blue  ;  also  the  little  flower  that  the  Italians  call  forget- 
me-not,  which  is  the  tiniest  of  things,  shaped  like  our  forget-me- 
not,  but  of  a  pale  purple  color.  Dandelions  there  were  too,  and  but- 
tercups, warming  our  hearts  to  see  ;  we  would  not  admit  that  they 
were  any  more  golden  than  under  the  colder  sun  where  we  had  first 
picked  them.  ...  , 

Now  I  come  with  shamefacedness  to  speak  of  the  flowers  whose 
names  I  did  not  know.  What  brutish  people  we  are,  even  those  of 
us  who  think  we  love  Nature  well,  to  live  our  lives  out  so  ignorant 
of  her  good  old  families  !  We  are  quite  sure  to  know  the  names  and 
generations  of  hundreds  of  insignificant  men  and  women,  merely 
because  they  go  to  our  church,  or  live  in  our  street ;  and  we  should 
feel  ourselves  much  humiliated  if  we  were  not  on  what  is  called 
"speaking  terms  "with  the  best  people  wherever  we  go.  But  we 
are  not  ashamed  to  spend  summer  after  summer  face  to  face  with 
flowers,  and  trees,  and  stones,  and  never  so  much  as  know  them  by 
name.  I  wonder  they  treat  us  so  well  as  they  do,  provide  us  with 
food  and  beauty  so  often,  poison  us  so  seldom.  It  must  be  only  out 
of  the  pity  they  feel,  being  diviner  than  we.  .  .  . 

As  we  came  out  of  the  woods  upon  the  craggy  precipices  near  the 
convent,  we  found  the  rocks  covered  with  purple  and  pink  thyme. 
The  smell  of  it,  crushed  under  the  donkey's  hoofs,  was  delicious. 
Somebody  was  homesick  enough  to  say  that  it  was  like  going  across 
a  New  England  kitchen  the  day  before  Thanksgiving,  and  spilling 
the  sweet  marjoram.  .  .  . 

As  we  came  down  the  mountain  the  sunset  lights  kindled  the  whole 
Campagna  into  a  flaming  sea.  The  Mediterranean  beyond  seemed, 
by  some  strange  optical  effect,  to  be  turned  up  around  the  horizon 
like  a  golden  rim  holding  the  misty  sea.  The  lake  looked  darker 
and  darker  at  every  step  of  our  descent.  Mount  Soracte  stood  clear 
cut  against  the  northern  sky,  and  between  us  and  it  went  up  the 
smoke  of  that  enchantress,  Rome,  the  great  dome  of  St.  Peter's 
looming  and  fading  and  looming  and  fading  again  through  the  yellow 
mist  like  a  gigantic  bubble,  as  the  power  of  the  faith  it  represents 
has  loomed,  and  faded,  and  loomed,  through  all  the  ages. 


HELEN    FISKE    HUNT. 


547 


THOUGHT. 

0  MESSENGER,  art  thou  the  king,  or  I  ? 
Thou  dalliest  outside  the  palace  gate 
Till  on  thine  idle  armor  lie  the  late 

And  heavy  dews  :  the  morn's  bright,  scornful  eye 
Reminds  thee  ;  then,  in  subtle  mockery, 
Thou  smilest  at  the  window  where  I  wait, 
Who  bade  thee  ride  for  life.     In  empty  state 
My  days  go  on,  while  false  hours  prophesy 
Thy  quick  return  ;  at  last,  in  sad  despair, 

1  cease  to  bid  thee,  leave  thee  free  as  air  ; 
When  lo  !  thou  stand'st  before  me  glad  and  fleet, 
And  lay'st  undreamed-of  treasures  at  my  feet. 
Ah  !  messenger,  thy  royal  blood  to  buy 

I  am  too  poor.     Thou  art  the  king,  not  I. 


NOVEMBER  woods  are  bare  and  still ; 

November  days  are  clear  and  bright ; 
Each  noon  burns  up  the  morning's  chill ; 

The  morning's  snow  is  .gone  by  night ; 

Each  day  my  steps  grow  slow,  grow  light, 
As  through  the  woods  I  reverent  creep, 
Watching  all  things  lie  "down  to  sleep." 


"DOWN  TO  SLEEP." 

Each  day  I  find  new  coverlids 
Tucked  in,  and  more  sweet  eyes  shut  tight ; 

Sometimes  the  viewless  mother  bids 
Her  ferns  kneel  down,  full  in  my  sight ; 
I  hear  th^r  chorus  of  "good  night ;  " 

And  half  I  smile,  and  half  I  weep, 

Listening  while  they  lie  "  down  to  sleep. " 


I  never  knew  before  what  beds, 
Fragrant  to  smell,  and  soft  to  touch, 

The  forest  sifts,  and  shapes,  and  spreads  ; 
I  never  knew  before  how  much 
Of  human  sound  there  is  in  such 

Low  tones  as  through  the  forest  sweep 

When  all  wild  things  lie  "down  to  sleep." 


November  woods  are  bare  and  still ; 

November  days  are  bright  and  good  ; 
Life's  noon  burns  up  life's  morning  chill ; 

Life's  night  rests  feet  which  long  have  stood; 

Some  warm,  soft  bed,  in  field  or  wood, 
The  mother  will  not  fail  to  keep, 
Where  we  can  "lay  us  down  to  sleep." 


DISTANCE. 


O  SUBTILE  secret  of  the  air, 
Making  the  things  that  are  not,  fair 
Beyond  the  things  that  we  can  reach 
And  name  with  names  of  clumsy  speech  ; 
By  shadow-worlds  of  purple  haze 
The  sunniest  of  sunny  days 
Outweighing  in  our  hearts'  delight ; 
Opening  yie  eyes  of  blinded  sight ; 
Holding  an  echo  in  such  hold, 


Bidding  a  hope  such  wings  unfold, 
That  present  sounds  and  sights  between 
Can  come  and  go,  unheard,  unseen,  — 
O  subtile  secret  of  the  air, 
Heaven  itself  is  heavenly  fair 
By  help  of  thee  1    The  saints'  good  days 
Are  good,  because  the  good  Lord  lays 
No  bound  of  shore  along  the  sea 
Of  beautiful  Eternity. 


548 


HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


APRIL. 

ROBINS  call  robins  in  tops  of  trees  ; 

Doves  follow  doves,  with  scarlet  feet ; 
Frolicking  babies,  sweeter  than  these, 

Crowd  green  corners  where  highways  meet 

Violets  stir  and  arbutus  wakes, 

Claytonia's  rosy  bells  unfold  ; 
Dandelion  through  the  meadow  makes 

A  royal  road,  with  seals  of  gold. 

Golden,  and  snowy,  and  red  the  flowers, 
Golden,  and  snowy,  and  red  in  vain  ; 

Robins  call  robins  through  sad  showers ; 
The  white  dove's  feet  are  wet  with  rain. 

For  April  sobs  while  these  are  so  glad, 
April  weeps  while  these  are  so  gay,  — 

Weeps  like  a  tired  child  who  had, 
Playing  with  flowers,  lost  its  way. 


THE   WAY  TO   SING. 


THE  birds  must  know.    Who  wisely  sings 

Will  sing  as  they ; 
The  common  air  has  generous  wings, 

Songs  make  their  way. 
No  messenger  to  run  before, 

Devising  plan ; 
No  mention  of  the  place  or  hour 

To  any  man ; 
No  waiting  till  some  sound  betrays 

A  listening  ear ; 
No  different  voice,  no  new  delays, 

If  steps  draw  near. 

"  What  bird  is  that  ?    Its  song  is  good. " 

And  eager  eyes 
Go  peering  through  the  dusky  wood, 

In  glad  surprise ; 
Then  late  at  night,  when  by  his  fire 

The  traveller  sits, 
Watching  the  flame  grow  brighter,  higher, 

The  sweet  song  flits 


By  snatches  through  his  weary  brain 

To  help  him  rest ; 
When  next  he  goes  that  road  again, 

An  empty  nest 
On  leafless  bough  will  make  him  sigh, 

"Ah  me  !  last  spring 
Just  here  I  heard,  in  passing  by, 

That  rare  bird  sing  !  " 

But  while  he  sighs,  remembering 

How  sweet  the  song, 
The  little  bird,  on  tireless  wing, 

Is  borne  along 
In  other  air,  and  other  men 

With  weary  feet, 
On  other  roads,  the  simple  strain 

Are  finding  sweet. 
The  birds  must  know.     Who  wisely  sings 

Will  sing  as  they ; 
The  common  air  has  generous  wings, 

Songs  make  their  way. 


ELIZABETH   AKERS    ALLEN.  549 


ELIZABETH   AKERS   ALLEN. 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen  was  born  in  the  town  of  Strong,  Franklin  County,  Me.,  October 
9,  1832.  She  was  married  in  1860  to  Paul  Akers,  the  sculptor,  who  died  within  less  than  a 
year  afterwards.  She  is  now  the  wife  of  Mr.  E.  M.  Allen,  of  New  York.  Her  first  efforts 
in  verse  were  published  with  the  HOW  de  plutae  of  Florence  Percy,  and  had  a  wide  popu- 
larity through  the  newspapers.  A  volume  of  her  poems  was  published  in  1867,  by  Messrs. 
Fields,  Osgood  &  Co.  They  have  undoubted  merits,  being  full  of  tender  feeling,  •with- 
out any  tinge  of  morbidness,  and  touched  here  and  there  with  high  lights  of  vivid  imagery 
and  picturesque  epithets.  Notice  this  picture  of  chestnut  blossoms:  — 

"Lanterned  with  white  the  chestnut  branches  wave." 
And  the  plaintive  song  of  the  wild  bird :  — 

"Filling  with  his  sweet  trouble  all  the  air." 
Observe  the  effect  of  the  church  windows :  — 

"  Where  through  the  windows  melts  the  unwilling  light, 

And  in  its  passage  learns  their  gorgeous  stain, 

Then  bars  the  gloom  with  hues  all  rainbow  bright, 

As  human  souls  grow  beautiful  through  pain," 

See  this  glimpse  of  the  camp :  — 

"  The  darkened  hills 
Mushroomed  with  tents." 

If,  besides  the  specimens  printed  here,  our  readers  would  see  instances  of  the  author's 
power,  especially  in  pathetic  description,  let  them  turn  to  her  volume,  and  read  The  Spar- 
row at  Sea,  and  Left  Behind. 

AMONG  THE  LAURELS. 

THE  sunset's  gorgeous  dyes 

Paled  slowly  from  the  skies, 
And  the  clear  heaven  was  waiting  for  the  stars, 

As  side  by  side  we  strayed 

Along  a  sylvan  glade, 
And  found  our  pathway  crossed  by  rustic  bars. 

Beyond  the  barrier  lay 

A  green  and  tempting  way, 
Arched  with  fair  laurel  trees,  a-bloom  and  tall, 

Their  cups  of  tender  snow 

Edged  with  a  rosy  glow, 
And  warm,  sweet  shadows  trembling  over  all. 

The  chestnuts  sung  and  sighed, 
The  solemn  oaks  replied, 


5 SO  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

And  distant  pine  trees  crooned  in  cradling  tones  ; 

While  music  low  and  clear 

Gushed  from  the  darkness  near, 
Where  a  shy  brook  went  tinkling  over  stones. 

Soft  mosses,  damp  and  sweet, 

Allured  our  waiting  feet, 
And  brambles  veiled  their  thorns  with  treacherous  bloom  ; 

While  tiny  flecks  of  flowers, 

Which  owned  no  name  of  ours, 
Added  their  mite  of  beauty  and  perfume. 

And  hark  !  a  hidden  bird, 

To  sudden  utterance  stirred, 
As  by  a  wondrous  love  too  great  to  bear 

With  voiceless  silence  long, 

Burst  into  passionate  song, 
Filling  with  his  sweet  trouble  all  the  air. 

Then  one,  whose  eager  soul 

Could  brook  no  small  control, 
Said,  "  Let  us  thread  this  pleasant  path,  dear  friend : 

If  thus  the  way  can  be 

So  beautiful  to  see, 
How  much  more  beautiful  must  be  the  end ! 

"Follow!  this  solitude 

May  shrine  the  haunted  wood, 
Storied  so  sweetly  in  romance  and  rhyme,  — 

Secure  from  human  ill, 

And  rarely  peopled  still 
By  Fauns  and  Dryads  of  the  olden  time. 

"  A  spot  of  hallowed  ground 

By  mortal  yet  unfound, 
Sacred  to  nymph  and  sylvan  deity, — 

Where  foiled  Apollo  glides, 

And  bashful  Daphne  hides 
Safe  in  the  shelter  of  her  laurel  tree  ! n 


ELIZABETH   AKERS   ALLEN.  $$l 

"  Forbear  !  "  the  other  cried,  — 

"  O,  leave  the  way  untried  ! 
Those  joys  are  sweetest  which  we  only  guess  ; 

And  the  impatient  soul, 

That  seeks  to  grasp  the  whole, 
Defeats  itself  by  its  own  eagerness. 

"  Let  us  not  rudely  shake 
,'        The  dew-drop  from  the  brake 
Fringing  the  borders  of  this  haunted  dell ; 

All  the  delights  which  are  — 

The  present  and  the  far  — 
Lose  half  their  charm  by  being  known  too  well ! 

"  And  he  mistakes  who  tries 

To  search  all  mysteries,  — 
Who  leaves  no  cup  undrained,  no  path  untracked ; 

Who  seeks  to  know  too  much 

Brushes  with  ruthless  touch 
The  bloom  of  Fancy  from  the  brier  of  Fact 

"  Keep  one  fair  myth  aloof 

From  hard  and  actual  proof,  — 
Preserve  some  dear  delusions  as  they  seem ; 

Since  the  reality, 

How  bright  soe'er  it  be, 
Shows  dull  and  tame  beside  our  marvellous  dream. 

"  Leave  this  white  page  unscored, 

This  rare  realm  unexplored, 
And  let  dear  Fancy  roam  there  as  she  will : 

Whatever  page  we  turn, 

However  much  we  learn, 
Let  there  be  something  left  to  dream  of  still !  " 

Wherefore,  for  aught  we  know, 

The  golden  apples  grow 
In  the  green  vale  to  which  that  pathway  leads ; 

The  spirits  of  the  wood 

Still  haunt  its  solitude, 
And  Pan  sits  piping  there  among  the  reeds  ! 


552  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


IN  THE  DEFENCES. 

ALONG  the  ramparts  which  surround  the  town 
I  walk  with  evening,  marking  all  the  while 

How  night  and  autumn,  closing  softly  down, 
Leave  on  the  land  a  blessing  and  a  smile. 

In  the  broad  streets  the  sounds  of  tumult  cease, 
The  gorgeous  sunset  reddens  roof  and  spire, 

The  city  sinks  to  quietude  and  peace, 
Sleeping,  like  Saturn,  in  a  ring  of  fire  ; 

Circled  with  forts  whose  grim  and  threatening  walls 
Frown  black  with  cannon,  whose  abated  breath 

Waits  the  command  to  send  the  fatal  balls 
Upon  their  errands  of  dismay  and  death. 

And  see,  directing,  guiding,  silently 

Flash  from  afar  the  mystic  signal  lights, 

As  gleamed  the  fiery  pillar  in  the  sky 

Leading  by  night  the  wandering  Israelites. 

The  earthworks,  draped  with  summer  weeds  and  vines, 
The  rifle-pits,  half  hid  with  tangled  brier, 

But  wait  their  time  ;  for  see,  along  the  lines 
Rise  the  faint  smokes  of  lonesome  picket-fires, 

Where  sturdy  sentinels  on  silent  beat 

Cheat  the  long  hours  of  wakeful  loneliness 

With  thoughts  of  home,  and  faces  dear  and  sweet, 
And,  on  the  edge  of  danger,  dream  of  bliss. 

Yet  at  a  word,  how  wild  and  fierce  a  change 
Would  rend  and  startle  all  the  earth  and  skies 

With  blinding  glare,  and  noises  dread  and  strange, 
And  shrieks,  and  shouts,  and  deathly  agonies  ! 

But  now  how  tranquilly  the  golden  gloom 

Creeps  up  the  gorgeous  forest  slopes,  and  flows 


ELIZABETH   AKERS   ALLEN.  553 

Down  valleys  blue  with  fringy  aster-bloom,  — 
An  atmosphere  of  safety  and  repose. 

Against  the  sunset  lie  the  darkening  hills 

Mushroomed  with  tents,  the  sudden  growth  of  war ; 

The  frosty  autumn  air,  that  blights  and  chills, 
Yet  brings  its  own  full  recompense  therefor. 

Rich  colors  light  the  leafy  solitudes, 

And  far  and  near  the  gazer's  eyes  behold 
The  oak's  deep  scarlet,  warming  all  the  woods, 

And  spendthrift  maples  scattering  their  gold. 

The  pale  beech  shivers  with  prophetic  woe, 

The  towering  chestnut  ranks  stand  blanched  and  thinned, 
Yet  still  the  fearless*  sumac  dares  the  foe, 

And  waves  its  bloody  guidons  in  the  wind. 

Where  mellow  haze  the  hill's  sharp  outline  dims, 

Bare  elms,  like  sentinels,  watch  silently, 
The  delicate  tracery  of  their  slender  limbs 

Pencilled  in  purple  on  the  saffron  sky. 

The  failing  grasshopper  chirps  faint  and  shrill, 

The  cricket  calls,  in  mossy  covert  hid, 
Cheery  and  loud,  as  stoutly  answering  still 

The  soft  persistence  of  the  katydid. 

The  hum  of  voices,  and  the  careless  laugh 

Of  cheerful  talkers,  fall  upon  the  ear  ; 
The  flag  flaps  listlessly  adown  its  staff; 

And  still  the  katydid  pipes  loud  and  near. 

And  now  from  far  the  bugle's  mellow  throat 

Pours  out,  in  rippling  flow,  its  silver  tide ; 
And  up  the  listening  hills  the  echoes  float 

Faint  and  more  faint,  and  sweetly  multiplied. 

Peace  reigns  ;  not  now  a  soft-eyed  nymph  that  sleeps 
Unvexed  by  dreams  of  strife  or  conqueror, 


554       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

But  Power,  that,  open-eyed  and  watchful,  keeps 
Unwearied  vigil  on  the  brink  of  war. 

Night  falls  ;  in  silence  sleep  the  patriot  bands  ; 

The  tireless  cricket  yet  repeats  its  tune, 
And  the  still  figure  of  the  sentry  stands 

In  black  relief  against  the  low,  full  moon. 


JOHN  JAMES    PIATT. 

John  James  Piatt  was  born  at  Milton,  Ind.,  March  i,  1835.  He  was  educated  at  the 
High  School  in  Columbus,  O.,  and  at  Kenyon  College.  He  contributed  verses  in  1858  to 
the  Louisville  Journal,  and  in  1859  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  In  conjunction  with  Mr.  W. 
D.  Howells,  he  published,  in  1860,  Poems  of  Two  Friends.  In  1863  appeared  Nests  at 
Washington,  a  volume  of  poems  written  partly  by  himself  and  partly  by  his  wife,  Mrs.  Sarah 
M.  B.  Piatt.  In  1868  he  published  Western  Windows  and  Other  Poems;  in  1871  Land- 
marks and  Other  Poems. 

Mr.  Piatt  writes  with  force  and  becoming  dignity.  He  shows  a  poet's  appreciation  and 
feeling  in  his  subjects  and  illustrations,  but  his  thoughts  struggle  sometimes  with  the  re- 
straints of  rhythm.  We  feel  sure  that  his  vision  is  clear  even  when  he  has  not  attained  to  a 
full  and  fitting  expression.  He  has  drawn  his  inspiration  from  the  scenes  with  which  he  has 
been  familiar ;  he  has  not  been  an  imitator  in  construction,  nor  has  he  decked  his  verses 
with  pictorial  words  used  at  second  hand.  His  poems  are  totally  unlike  the  products 
of  the  Atlantic  coast ;  they  have  a  racy  flavor  of  their  own,  and  are  a  positive  addition  to 
our  national  literature. 

[From  Western  Windows.] 
THE   MORNING   STREET. 

ALONE  I  walk  the  morning  street, 
Filled  with  the  silence  vague  and  sweet : 
All  seems  as  strange,  as  still,  as  dead 
As  if  unnumbered  years  had  fled, 
Letting  the  noisy  Babel  lie 
Breathless  and  dumb  against  the  sky ; 
iThe  light  wind  walks  with  me  alone 
Where  the  hot  day  flame-like  was  blown, 
Where  the  wheels  roared,  the  dust  was  beat ; 
The  dew  is 'in  the  morning  street. 

Where  are  the  restless  throngs  that  pour 

Along  this  mighty  corridor 

While  the  noon  shines  ?  —  the  hurrying  crowd 

Whose  footsteps  make  the  city  loud  — 

The  myriad  faces  —  hearts  that  beat 

No  more  in  the  deserted  street  ? 


JOHN   JAMES    PIATT.  555 

Those  footsteps  in  their  dreaming  maze 
Cross  thresholds  of  forgotten  days  ; 
Those  faces  brighten  from  the  years 
In  rising  suns  long  set  in  tears  ; 
Those  hearts  —  far  in  the  Past  they  beat, 
Unheard  within  the  morning  street. 

A  city  of  the  world's  gray  prime, 
Lost  in  some  desert  far  from  Time, 
Where  noiseless  ages,  gliding  through, 
Have  only  sifted  sand  and  dew  — 
Yet  a  mysterious  hand  of  man 
Lying  on  all  the  haunted  plan, 
The  passions  of  the  human  heart 
Quickening  the  marble  breast  of  Art  — 
Were  not  more  strange  to  one  who  first 
Upon  its  ghostly  silence  burst 
Than  this  vast  quiet  where  the  tide 
Of  life,  upheaved  on  either  side, 
Hangs  trembling,  ready  soon  to  beat 
With  human  waves  the  morning  street. 

Ay,  soon  the  glowing  morning  flood 
Breaks  through  the  charmed  solitude : 
This  silent  stone,  to  music  won, 
Shall  murmur  to  the  rising  sun  ; 
The  busy  place,  in  dust  and  heat, 
Shall  rush  with  wheels  and  swarm  with  feet ; 
The  Arachne-threads  of  Purpose  stream 
Unseen  within  the  morning  gleam  ; 
The  life  shall  move,  the  death  be  plain  ; 
The  bridal  throng,  the  funeral  train, 
Together,  face  to  face,  shall  meet 
And  pass  within  the  morning  street. 


[From  Landmarks  and  Other  Poems.] 

THE  PEACH-BLOSSOMS. 
SENT  TO  ME  IN  THE  CITY,  WITH  THE  WORDS,  "Ir  is  SPRING." 

IT  was  a  gentle  gift  to  send, 
This  thought  in  blossoms  from  a  friend : 
Within  my  city  room 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

I  seem  to  breathe  the  country  air, 
While  April's  kisses  everywhere 

Start  Earth's  brown  cheeks  to  bloom. 

O,  beautiful  the  welcome  sight ! 
(Flushing  my  paper  as  I  write, 

My  words  seem  blossoming  !) 
The  lovely  lighted  snow  that  falls 
Rosy  around  the  cottage  walls, 

A  miracle  of  spring  ! 

Dream-like,  I  hear  the  sunny  hum 
Of  swarming  bees  ;  low  voices  come, 

Familiar,  close,  and  dear  ; 
I  hardly  know  if  I  am  there, 
Or,  shutting  out  the  noisy  air, 

Those  birds  are  singing  here  ! 

To  the  dry  city's  restless  heart 
What  tender  influence  ye  impart, 

My  blossoms,  soft  and  wild ! 
Ah,  from  this  barren  cell  I  feel 
Your  subtle  wand,  enchanting,  steal 

Me  to  the  Past  —  a  child  ! 

A  child  whose  laughter-lighted  face 
Breaks  from  some  happy  door,  a-chase 

For  new-winged  butterflies  ; 
The  wind,  how  merrily,  takes  his  hair  !  — 
Sing,  birds,  and  keep  him  ever  there 

With  world-forgetting  eyes  ! 

Most  gracious  miracle  of  spring 
That  gives  the  dead  tree  blossoming 

Its  resurrection  hour ! 
Lo  !   Memory  lifts  her  wizard  bough 
(That  seemed  as  bare  and  barren),  now 

Within  my  soul  in  flower  ! 


HARRIET   ELIZABETH    PRESCOTT   SPOFFORD.          557 


HARRIET   ELIZABETH   PRESCOTT   SPOFFORD. 

Harriet  Elizabeth  (Prescott)  Spofford  was  born  in  Calais,  Me.,  April  3,  1835.  She  was 
married  in  1865  to  Richard  S.  Spofford,  Esq.,  a  lawyer  of  Newburyport,  Mass.  She  was 
early  distinguished  by  her  literary  ability.  She  contributed  a  story,  entitled  In  a  Cellar,  to 
the  Atlantic  Monthly  in  its  first  year  of  publication,  which  was  greatly  admired  for  its 
vivacity,  its  insight  into  character,  and  its  brilliant  dialogue.  In  1859  she  published  a  story 
called  Sir  Rohan's  Ghost,  which  displayed  a  remarkable  talent  for  description,  but  was 
rather  too  sombre  in  character  for  the  popular  taste.  In  1863  she  collected  a  series  of  tales 
which  she  had  written  for  the  magazines,  entitled  The  Amber  Gods,  and  Other  Stories. 
Azarian  followed  in  1864.  The  Thief  in  the  Night,  a  short  but  powerful  novelette,  was  pub- 
lished in  1872.  She  has  also  written  many  poems,  sketches,  and  stories  that  remain  uncol- 
lected. 

If  any  one  were  called  on  to  select  the  most  original,  vivid,  and  most  artistically  wrought 
stories  of  our  time,  Mrs.  Spofford's  would  be  named  among  the  first  There  are  no  better 
specimens  of  what  a  story  for  a  magazine  should  be  than  In  a  Cellar  and  Yet's  Christmas 
Box.  Her  writings  manifest  a  supreme  sense  of  beauty,  a  revelling  delight  in  color,  in 
music,  and  in  all  the  luxuries  of  sense.  They  show  also  a  wide  range  of  reading,  especially 
of  poetry,  a  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  of  the  capacity  of  sensitive  souls  for  pain  as 
well  as  for  enjoyment.  These  brilliant  fantasies,  which  would  seem  to  have  been  conceived 
and  born  in  a  flash  of  enthusiasm,  are  but  glimpses  of  what  we  might  expect  if  the  same 
powers  were  spent  upon  a  longer  and  more  carefully  planned  work.  Perhaps  the  mood 
would  not  last  long  enough  !  It  might  be  the  good  fortune  of  a  book  to  represent  a  cycle 
of  the  author's  thought  and  experience,  — to  begin  with  life's  hyacinths,  to  flourish  with  its 
roses,  to  wear  the  autumnal  splendor  of  its  salvias,  and  end  with  the  lasting  verdure  of  its 
mountain  pines.  Only,  one  would  need  to  consider  whether  the  point  of  view  were  not 
changing  while  the  work  was  being  completed  ;  otherwise  the  novel  or  poem  might  be 
in  the  condition  of  an  old  cathedral  which  needs  new  basement  stones  before  the  last  pinna- 
cles have  pierced  the  sky. 

[From  Yet's  Christmas-Box,  published  in  Harper's  Magazine  for  April,  1860.] 
A  RACE  FOR  LIFE  WITH   A  TIDE  BY  THE  BAY  OF  FUNDY. 

[Miss  Henrietta  Yuler,  whose  name  was  abbreviated  to  "Yet,"  was  a  governess  in  the 
family  of  Madame  Van  Voorst.  She  had  walked  across  a  beach  at  the  head  of  the  Bay  of 
Fundy,  and  was  returning  when  she  was  overtaken  by  the  tide.  She  was  saved  by  the 
courage  of  a  grandson  of  Madame  Van  Voorst's,  known  in  the  family  as  "  Van."J 

THE  long  winter  passed.  March  blew  down  warm  gales  that 
thawed  the  ice ;  the  snow  melted  away ;  in  April  the  bare  willow 
boughs  reddened  like  flames  ;  spring  came  early  across  the  fields, 
and  with  the  spring  came  Passion-week.  It  was  Good  Friday. 
After  church  Miss  Yuler  walked  on  an  errand  for  Madam  Van 
Voorst  to  the  village  beyond,  and,  the  day  being  so  balmy,  took 
her  way  along  the  shore.  She  had  very  seldom  followed  this 
path  ;  her  walks  had  always  been  in  another  direction  —  for  to 
people  who  have  a  narrow,  personal  melancholy  the  sea  is  never 
grateful;  and,  except  to  watch  the  picturesque  tides  of  the  Bay 


558  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

of  Fundy,  she  had  no  fancy  now  for  looking  over  its  stretches 
of  color  and  foam.  The  tide  was  out ;  she  walked  rapidly,  reached 
the  village,  and  performed  her  errand.  .  .  . 

It  was  about  two  hours  past  noon  when,  bathed  and  refreshed, 
Van  came  down  stairs.  He  looked  into  the  drawing-room  to  see 
his  grandmother  sitting  there,  her  spectacles  dropping  from  her 
nose,  the  prayer-book  in  her  lap,  the  April  sun  overlying  her  as  she 
nodded  away  to  the  tune  of  her  dream. 

"  Grandma  !  "  he  cried,  abruptly,  "  where's  Miss  Yuler  ?  " 

"  Which  ? "  said  the  old  lady,  giving  her  shoulder  a  little  shake, 
and  righting  herself. 

"  Has  Miss  Yuler  got  home  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.     Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  What  time  does  the  tide  full  ?  " 

"  About  four." 

"  It  wants  a  quarter.  Good  God,  she'll  be  overtaken  !  "  And  he 
dashed  out  to  the  stable.  Madam  Van  Voorst  followed  quickly. 

"  What  are  you  about  ?  "  she  cried,  as  he  flung  the  saddle  on  Fau- 
tour.  "  You  are  not  going  to  cross  the  sands  now  ?  Van  !  Van  ! 
You'll  be  drowned  !  " 

He  flung  her  off  like  a  rain-drop,  sprang  to  the  saddle,  and  was 
away  like  the  wind. 

As  is  very  well  known,  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  cross  the 
head  of  the  bay  when  the  roar  of  the  distant  tide  has  once  been 
heard  ;  the  rushing  torrent  overtakes  the  adventurous  runner,  and 
the  fleetest  horse  cannot  escape  its  speed.  As  Van's  Fautour 
leaped  down  the  rocks  to  the  sand,  and  opened  a  hard  gallop 
along  the  edge,  a  whisper  like  the  rustle  of  wind  in  the  pine-tops 
shivered  through  the  air.  Van's  eyes  grew  fiercer ;  he  turned  the 
spurs  in- and  flew  forward.  The  whisper  crept  hoarsely  on  his  ear  ; 
it  became  voluminous  and  panting ;  it  gathered  and  swept  its  swift 
sighs,  and  swelled,  and  broke  into  a  low  roar,  as  if  a  lion  shook  his 
bristling  mane,  and  glared  around  his  distant  den.  Still  Van 
bounded  on  ;  the  horse  was  stung  with  fright ;  the  sand  shook 
with  shocks  of  sound ;  he  stood  in  the  stirrup,  and  strained  his 
sight  along  the  shore  ;  the  wind  of  the  advancing  tide  blew  in  his 
uncovered  hair.  Suddenly,  at  a  third  of  the  distance  across,  Fau- 
tour swerved  and  stood  with  a  quiver.  Miss  Yuler  was  standing 
quietly  before  him  on  the  beach,  her  bonnet  in  her  hand.  She 
appeared  to  have  been  running,  but  must  now  have  been  motionless 
for  several  minutes  ;  she  had  found  it  useless  to  make  any  farther 


HARRIET    ELIZABETH    PRESCOTT    SPOFFORD.  559 

effort,  and  had  abandoned  the  idea  of  life.  Whatever  grace  of  nature 
enriched  her  soul,  she  had  in  this  moment  surrendered  herself  to  its 
sway.  On  her  face  shone  the  awful  pallor  of  those  who  confront 
Death,  and  await  him.  There  was,  besides,  some  eagerness  in  her 
glittering  eye  to  catch  the  beauty  of  her  destroyer.  She  saw  Van ; 
the  color  rushed  up  again  into  her  cheek  and  lip  ;  he  gave  his  foot 
for  a  step,  without  a  word,  seized  her  hands,  lifted  her  before  him, 
turned  Fautour  about  with  a  savage  rapidity,  and  flew  back.  It  was 
better  to  die  so  than  alone.  His  eyes  were  fastened  on  her ;  she 
only  looked  out  and  down  the  bay;  neither  spoke,  It  was  now  a 
race  for  life.  On,  spear's  length  by  spear's  length,  bounded  the 
horse  ;  on,  rushing  and  seething,  chased  the  tide  ;  its  chill  breath 
stole  across  them,  its  damp  swathed  them,  white  wreaths  of  mist 
curled  over  their  heads.  At  the  right  the  banks  and  crags  seemed 
awaiting  its  flood  ;  at  the  left  a  narrow  line  of  low  waves  crept  sinu- 
ously, peering  into  the  bay,  and  tossing  their  snowy  crests  like  troops 
of  wild  horses.  Fautour  felt  the  danger,  and  did  not  need  the  red 
spur  ;  with  his  Double  burden  he  doubled  his  strides,  and  left  his 
shadow  behind  him.  On  they  raced  ;  an  element  raced  after.  The 
dull  and  muffled  tone  broke  in  full  and  sonorous  ;  the  separate  hiss 
and  splash  became  distinct  ;  scenting  their  prey,  three  feet  at  a  time 
the  waves  came  leaping  in,  receding  and  foaming,  and  eddying  up 
again,  till  a  wall  of  chrysoprase  transparency  towered  between  them 
and  the  western  sky,  and  rolled,  in  shattered  light  and  fusing  volume, 
to  fill  its  destined  depth  of  fathom,  with  the  noise  of  many  waters 
and  the  speed  of  wind.  Off  from  the  trembling  sand  to  the  rocks 
sprang  Fantour  ;  up  he  clambered  from  steep  to  steep ;  the  early 
sunset  was  bathing  all  summits  in  soft  crimson  warmth,  the  pale  gold 
of  the  orbed  moon  hung  in  the  east  with  all  her  potent  influences, 
foam-flakes  fell  heavily  on  their  hair ;  another  step  would  sav^  them. 
A  plunge  —  the  crest  curled  under  them,  and  the  last  wave  sent  its 
spent  torrent  to  cool  the  burning  hoofs  that  were  planted  rigid  as 
iron,  and  the  tide  was  full. 

The  whole  household  had  poured  out  to  watch  the  catastrophe.. 
Miss  Yuler  stepped  coolly  to  the  ground  again.  Van  dismounted, 
and,  replying  curtly  to  their  shower  of  interrogatories,  gave  the  bridle 
to  a  servant  and  strode  towards  the  house.  Whether  he  thought  the 
life  he  had  saved  belonged  to  him  or  not,  he  was  not  the  one  to  take 
advantage  of  Miss  Yuler's  first  impulse  of  gratitude,  if  any  such  im- 
pulse found  room  in  her  heart  ;  and  in  less  than  an  hour  everything 
was  restored  to  its  usual  quiet. 


56O  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


CELIA  THAXTER. 

Mrs.  Celia  Thaxter  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  June  29,  1835.  She  passed  the 
greater  part  of  her  early  life  upon  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  a  rocky  group  about  ten  miles  distant 
from  the  main  land.  She  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  in  1867-8,  a  series  of  papers 
upon  these  islands  which  were  of  exceptional  interest  and  value.  In  faithfulness  of  observa- 
tion, pictorial  art,  and  the  perfect  keeping  of  style,  they  are  almost  unrivalled  among  maga- 
zine articles.  With  the  recollection  of  these  pictures  in  mind  the  editor  had  determined 
to  present  some  specimens  in  this  volume.  But  an  examination  of  her  Poems,  recently 
published  (1872),  showed  that  the  elements  of  strength  and  beauty  in  her  prose  were  retained 
and  even  heightened  in  her  verse.  The  range  of  the  poems  is  confined  to  the  sea  and  its 
shores,  so  that  they  are  lacking  in  the  variety  of  scenery,  of  thought,  and  of  sentiment, 
which  we  admire  in  some  other  authors.  But  on  the  solitary  coast,  in  view  of  the  sea,  with 
its  changeful  skies,  its  distant  ships,  and  its  white-winged  sea  birds,  she  is  emphatically  the 
most  picturesque  of  poets  and  subtilest  of  ideal  colorists.  Her  verses  have  the  very  swing 
of  the  sea.  As  we  read  we  feel  its  cool  breath,  we  perceive  its  delicate  scent,  and  we  hear 
the  ripple  of  the  waves  and  the  soft  rote  on  the  pebbly  beach.  It  is  marvellous,  too,  to 
notice  how  the  language  yields  to  her  art,  and  becomes  as  liquid  and  as  graceful  as  the  waves 
themselves.  The  various  scenes  of  The  Summer's  Day,  as  studies  of  atmospheric  effects, 
should  have  been  painted  by  Turner.  It  is  doubtful  whether  that  poem  is  not  fully  equal, 
as  a  work  of  art,  to  The  Wreck  of  the  Pocahontas,  here  printed.  The  Little  Sandpiper  is 
an  exquisite  sketch  ;  Before  Sunrise  glows  with  the  very  light  of  the  east ;  —  but  we  should 
merely  enumerate  all  the  titles  in  the  little  book,  which  is  a  casket  of  gems,  if  we  were  to 
continue.  The  Burgomaster  Gull  is  included  by  the  author  among  Poems  for  Children,  but 
its  bright  pictures  of  the  birds  that  haunt  the  islands  cannot  fail  to  please  those  who  ara 
children  no  longer. 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  POCAHONTAS. 

1  LIT  the  lamps  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 

For  the  sun  dropped  down  and  the  day  was  dead ; 
They  shone  like  a  glorious  clustered  flower,  — 
Ten  golden  and  five  red. 

Looking  across,  where  the  line  of  coast 

Stretched  darkly,  shrinking  away  from  the  sea, 
The  lights  sprang  out  at  its  edge,  —  almost 
They  seemed  to  answer  me. 

O,  warning  lights  !  burn  bright  and  clear, 

Hither  the  storm  comes  !     Leagues  away 
It  moans  and  thunders  low  and  drear,  — 
Burn  till  the  break  of  day  ! 

Good  night !  I  called  to  the  gulls  that  sailed 

Slow  past  me  through  the  evening  sky  ; 
And  my  comrades,  answering  shrilly,  hailed 
Me  back  with  boding  cry. 


CELIA   THAXTER.  56! 

A  mournful  breeze  began  to  blow  ; 

Weird  music  it  drew  through  the  iron  bars  ; 
The  sullen  billows  boiled  below, 
And  dimly  peered  the  stars. 

The  sails  that  flecked  the  ocean  floor 

From  east  to  west,  leaned  low  and  fled  ; 
They  knew  what  came  in  the  distant  roar 
That  filled  the  air  with  dread  ! 

Flung  by  a  fitful  gust,  there  beat 

Against  the  window  a  dash  of  rain  :  — 
Steady  as  tramp  of  marching  feet 
Strode  on  the  hurricane. 

It  smote  the  waves  for  a  moment  still, 

Level  and  deadly  white  for  fear ; 
The  bare  rock  shuddered,  —  an  awful  thrill 
Shook  even  my  tower  of  cheer. 

Like  all  the  demons  loosed  at  last, 

Whistling  and  shrieking,  wild  and  wide, 
The  mad  wind  raged,  while  strong  and  fast 
Rolled  in  the  rising  tide. 

And  soon  in  ponderous  showers  the  spray, 

Struck  from  the  granite,  reared  and  sprung, 
And  clutched  at  tower  and  cottage  gray, 
Where  overwhelmed  they  clung, 

Half  drowning,  to  the  naked  rock  ; 

But  still  burned  on  the  faithful  light, 
Nor  faltered  at  the  tempest's  shock, 
Through  all  the  fearful  night. 

Was  it  in  vain  ?     That  knew  not  we. 
We  seemed,  in  that  confusion  vast 
Of  rushing  wind  and  roaring  sea, 
One  point  whereon  was  cast 

The  whole  Atlantic's  weight  of  brine. 

Heaven  help  the  ship  should  drift  our  way ! 
No  matter  how  the  light  might  shine 
Far  on  into  the  day. 
36 


562       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

When  morning  dawned,  above  the  din 
Of  gale  and  breaker  boomed  a  gun  ! 
Another  !     We  who  sat  within 
Answered  with  cries  each  one. 

Into  each  other's  eyes,  with  fear, 

We  looked  through  helpless  tears,  as  still, 
One  after  one,  near  and  more  near, 
The  signals  pealed,  until 

The  thick  storm  seemed  to  break  apart, 
To  show  us,  staggering  to  her  grave, 
The  fated  brig.     We  had  no  heart 
To  look,  for  nought  could  save. 

One  glimpse  of  black  hull  heaving  slow, 

Then  closed  the  mists  o'er  canvas  torn, 
And  tangled  ropes  swept  to  and  fro 
From  masts  that  raked  forlorn. 

Weeks  after,  yet  ringed  round  with  spray, 

Our  island  lay,  and  none  might  land, 
Though  blue  the  waters  of  the  bay 
Stretched  calm  on  either  hand. 

And  when  at  last  from  the  distant  shore 

A  little  boat  stole  out,  to  reach 
Our  loneliness,  and  bring  once  more 
Fresh  human  thought  and  speech, 

We  told  our  tale,  and  the  boatman  cried  : 

"  'Twas  the  Pocahontas,  —  all  were  lost ! 
For  miles  along  the  coast  the  tide 
Her  shattered  timbers  tossed."  ' 

Then  I  looked  the  whole  horizon  round, — 

So  beautiful  the  ocean  spread 
About  us,  o'er  those  sailors  drowned  ! 
"  Father  in  heaven,"  I  said,  — 

A  child's  grief  struggling  in  my  breast,  — 

"  Do  purposeless  thy  children  meet 
Such  bitter  death  ?     How  was  it  best 
These  hearts  should  cease  to  beat  ? 


CELIA    THAXTER.  563 

"  O,  wherefore  ?     Are  we  nought  to  thee  ? 

Like  senseless  weeds  that  rise  and  fall 
Upon  thine  awful  sea,  are  we 
No  more  then,  after  all  ?  " 

And  I  shut  the  beauty  from  my  sight, 

For  I  thought  of  the  dead  that  lay  below ; 
From  the  bright  air  faded  the  warmth  and  light  — 
There  came  a  chill  like  snow. 

Then  I  heard  the  far-off  note  resound, 

Where  the  breakers  slow  and  slumberous  rolled, 
And  a  subtile  sense  of  Thought  profound 
Touched  me  with  power  untold. 

And,  like  a  voice  eternal,  spake 

That  wondrous  rhythm,  and  "  Peace  !  be  still ! " 
It  murmured  ;  "bow  thy  head,  and  take 
Life's  rapture  and  life's  ill, 

"And  wait.     At  last  shall  all  be  clear." 

The  long,  low,  mellow  music  rose 
And  fell,  and  soothed  my  dreaming  ear 
With  infinite  repose. 

Sighing,  I  climbed  the  light-house  stair, 

Half  forgetting  my  grief  and  pain  ; 
And  while  the  day  died  sweet  and  fair, 
I  lit  the  lamps  again. 


THE   BURGOMASTER  GULL. 

THE  old-wives  sit  on  the  heaving  brine, 

White-breasted  in  the  sun, 
Preening  and  smoothing  their  feathers  fine, 

And  scolding  every  one. 

The  snowy  kitti wakes  overhead, 

With  beautiful  beaks  of  gold, 
And  wings  of  delicate  gray  outspread, 

Float  listening  while  they  scold. 


564  HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

And  a  foolish  guillemot,  swimming  by, 
Though  heavy,  and  clumsy,  and  dull, 

Joins  in  with  a  will  when  he  hears  their  cry 
'Gainst  the  Burgomaster  Gull. 

For  every  sea-bird,  far  and  near, 
With  an  atom  of  brains  in  its  skull, 

Knows  plenty  of  reasons  for  hate  and  fear 
Of  the  Burgomaster  Gull. 

The  black  ducks  gather,  with  plumes  so  rich, 
And  the  coots  in  twinkling  lines  ; 

And  the  swift  and  slender  water-witch, 
Whose  neck  like  silver  shines  ; 

Big  eider-ducks,  with  their  caps  pale  green, 
And  their  salmon-colored  vests  ; 

And  gay  mergansers  sailing  between, 
With  their  long  and  glittering  crests. 

But  the  loon  aloof  on  the  outer  edge 

Of  the  noisy  meeting  keeps, 
And  laughs  to  watch  them  behind  the  ledge 

Where  the  lazy  breaker  sweeps. 

They  scream,  and  wheel,  and  dive,  and  fret, 

And  flutter  in  the  foam  ; 
And  fish  and  mussels  blue  they  get 

To  feed  their  young  at  home  : 

Till,  hurrying  in,  the  little  auk 

Brings  tidings  that  benumbs, 
And  stops  at  once  their  clamorous  talk,  — 

"  The  Burgomaster  comes  !  " 

And  up  he  sails,  a  splendid  sight, 
With  "  wings  like  banners  "  wide, 

And  eager  eyes  both  big  and  bright, 
That  peer  on  every  side. 

A  lovely  kittiwake  flying  past, 
With  a  slippery  pollock  fine,  — 

Quoth  the  Burgomaster,  "  Not  so  fast, 
My  beauty  !     This  is  mine  !  " 


CELIA   THAXTER.  56$ 

His  strong  wing  strikes  with  dizzying  shock ; 

Poor  kittivvake,  shrieking,  flees  ; 
His  booty  he  takes  to  the  nearest  rock, 

To  eat  it  at  his  ease. 

The  scared  birds  scatter  to  left  and  right, 

But  the  bold  buccaneer,  in  his  glee, 
Cares  little  enough  for  their  woe  and  their  fright,  — 

"  'Twill  \)zyour  turn  next !  "  cries  he. 

He  sees  not,  hidden  behind  the  rock, 

In  the  sea-weed,  a  small  boat's  hull, 
Nor  dreams  he  the  gunners  have  spared  the  flock 

For  the  Burgomaster  Gull. 

So  proudly  his  dusky  wings  are  spread, 

And  he  launches  out  on  the  breeze,  — 
When,  lo  !  what  thunder  of  wrath  and  dread ! 

What  deadly  pangs  are  these  ! 

The  red  blood  drips,  and  the  feathers  fly, 

Down  drop  the  pinions  wide  ; 
The  robber-chief,  with  a  bitter  cry, 

Falls  headlong  in  the  tide  ! 

They  bear  him  off  with  laugh  and  shout ; 

The  wary  birds  return  ; 
From  the  clove-brown  feathers  that  float  about 

The  glorious  news  they  learn. 

Then  such  a  tumult  fills  the  place 

As  never  was  sung  or  said  ; 
And  all  cry,  wild  with  joy,  "  The  base, 

Bad  Burgomaster's  dead  !  " 

And  the  old-wives  sit  with  their  caps  so  white, 

And  their  pretty  beaks  so  red, 
And  swing  on  the  billows,  and  scream  with  delight, 

For  the  Burgomaster's  dead  1 


566  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


MOSES    COIT   TYLER. 

Moses  Coit  Tyler  was  born  at  Griswold,  Conn.,  in  1835,  and  was  graduated  at  Yale  Col- 
lege in  1857.  He  studied  theology  in  the  seminary  at  Andover,  Mass.,  and  was  settled  as 
pastor  of  a  church  in  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y.,  in  1860,  where  he  remained  two  years.  He  is. 
now  Professor  of  English  Literature  in  the  University  of  Michigan.  He  has  been  a  contrib- 
utor to  the  New  York  Independent,  and  various  other  periodicals.  He  published  in  1869  a 
series  of  essays  upon  physical  culture,  entitled  The  Brawnviile  Papers.  He  writes  in  an 
earnest,  vigorous  style,  that  smacks  of  the  field  and  the  street  no  less  than  of  university  cul- 
ture, and  upon  topics  of  the  highest  practical  importance. 

[From  The  Brawnviile  Papers.] 
MARTYRS   TO   SCIENCE. 

ABOUT  fifty  years  ago  the  sensibilities  of  England  and  America 
were  profoundly  and  generously  stirred  by  the  story,  related  by  Rob- 
ert Southey,  of  the  wonderful  life  and  the  premature  death  of  a  stu- 
dent at  Cambridge,  named  Henry  Kirke  White.  No  doubt  this  story 
owed  not  a  little  of  its  impressiveness  to  the  eminence  of  the  author 
who  told  it',  and  to  the  charms  of  that  exquisite  prose  of  which  the 
Poet  Laureate  was  so  consummate  a  master.  A  delicate  youth,  born 
in  lowly  circumstances,  with  the  glorious  face  and  the  temperament 
of  genius,  attracts  to  himself  the  favor  of  a  wealthy  patron,  and  is 
enabled  to  enter  one  of  the  renowned  universities  of  the  world.  Pen- 
sive, poetical,  aspiring,  prayerful,  and  bilious,  he  pants  to  satisfy  the 
lofty  expectations  of  his  admirers,  and  succeeds  in  becoming  the 
model  of  a  virtuous  but  romantic  and  lackadaisical  student.  He 
wrestles  with  the  stern  realities  of  the  Calculus,  and  indites  sonnets 
to  the  moon  ;  composes  eloquent  hymns  to  his  Creator,  and  madri- 
gals to  his  lady's  eyebrow  ;  writes  polished  epigrams  in  the  style  of 
Horace,  which  show  the  elegance  of  his  taste,  and  essays  on  Melan- 
choly in  the  style  of  Addison,  which  reveal  the  disordered  condition 
of  his  liver  ;  supplicates  Heaven  for  the  restoration  of  his  health, 
and  denies  himself  needful  sleep  by  the  help  of  strong  tea,  pins,  and 
cold-water  compresses  ;  utters  a  pious  ejaculation  before  every  meal, 
and  then  swallows  it  with  a  rapidity  indicative  of  his  contempt  for 
the  functions  of  teeth,  gastric  juice,  and  all  other  carnal  things  ; 
gains  all  the  highest  prizes,  amazes  all  the  wisest  Dons,  violates  all 
the  holiest  laws  of  health,  and  dies  in  a  blaze  of  glory,  a  Martyr  to 
Science  ! 

"  Success  is  the  mother  of  imitation  ;  "  and  the  unintended  evil  of 


MOSES    COIT   TYLER.  $6? 

Kirke  White's  radiant  and  rose-watery  career  infected  the  colleges 
of  Christendom.  Straightway  we  had  a  plague  of  pious  and  moony 
young  gentlemen,  who  excelled  in  Homer  and  hypochondria  ;  cul- 
tivated prayer,  poesy,  and  dyspepsia  ;  made  tender  reference  in 
rhyme  to  their  lyres,  their  lutes,  and  their  longings  to  be  no  more  ; 
sauntered  languishingly  by  purling  brooks,  when  they  ought  to 
have  been  kicking  the  foot-ball ;  sat  up  burning  an  extravagant 
quantity  of  midnight  oil,  when  they  had  been  much  more  profit- 
ably employed  snoring  in  their  bunks ;  and,  while  confounding 
the  twinges  of  a  morbid  conscience  with  the  pangs  of  indigestion, 
and  while  mistaking  the  depression  of  abused  nerves  for  an  angelic 
summons  to  leave  this  Vale  of  Tears,  they  awaited  somewhat  im- 
patiently the  time  when  they  should  also  become  Martyrs  to 
Science,  bemoaned  and  canonized  by  the  principal  parish  sewing 
societies  of  the  civilized  world. 

If  this  sort  of  thing  had  continued,  it  is  impossible  to  say  into 
what  a  state  the  literary  world  would  have  descended.  It  is  prob- 
able that  science  would  have  come  to  be  synonymous  with  sciatica, 
and  the  word  learning  would  have  suggested  lankness,  lassitude, 
and  long  hair ;  the  chief  purpose  of  going  to  college  would  have 
been  to  acquire  the  dead  languages,  an  interesting  cough,  the 
tearful  sympathy  of  old  women,  and  an  early  death  ;  the  royal  road 
to  knowledge  would  have  signified  a  turnpike  leading  into  the 
graveyard.  An  old  scholar  would  have  been  as  rare  as  white 
blackbirds  and  four-leaved  clover,  and  gray  hair  would  have  been 
an  infallible  proof  that  its  possessor  is  an  ignoramus. 

Fortunately,  before  the  new  philosophy  had  become  rooted  in 
the  world,  a  great,  robust,  and  manly  scholar,  Thomas  Arnold, 
was  called  to  preside  over  one  of  the  famous  foundation  schools 
of  England.  He  was  a  man  who,  above  all  things,  scorned  cant, 
effeminacy,  and  unreality,  and  he  set  himself,  with  all  the  earnest- 
ness of  his  powerful  nature,  to  the  task  of  exterminating  this  spirit 
of  literary  sickliness.  He  refused  to  admire  learned  noodles  of 
the  Kirke  White  order  ;  he  called  them  by  their  true  names,  not 
Martyrs  to  Science,  but  Suicides  of  Vanity,  Ignorance,  and 
Folly. 

In  this  spirit  Dr.  Arnold  reprobated,  as  an  impiety,  the  whole 
system  of  cultivating  one  part  of  our  nature  at  the  expense  of 
another.  He  fought  it  in  the  class-room  and  in  the  chapel ;  he 
talked  against  it,  wrote  against  it,  lectured  against  if,  preached 
against  it.  He  assailed  it  with  texts  of  Scripture,  with  the  maxims 


568       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

of  Greek  ethics,  and  the  verdicts  of  common  sense.  He  told  his 
boys  that,  just  as  there  was  the  virtue  of  honesty,  and  the  virtue 
of  justice,  and  the  virtue  of  fortitude,  and  the  virtue  of  charity, 
and  the  virtue  of  reverence,  so  was  there  the  gymnastic  virtue  — 
the  virtue  of  obedience  to  the  laws  of  health.  He  told  them  that 
this  was  Christian  truth,  —  a  portion  of  the  Christianity  which  ex- 
isted in  the  world  before  Christianity  was  born.  He  told  them 
that  good  health  was  of  more  consequence  to  them  than  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  Binomial  Theorem,  or  than  facility  in  the  manufacture 
of  Latin  hexameters  ;  that  sound  lungs  and  capable  stomachs  were 
the  necessary  conditions  of  useful  scholarship  ;  and  that  they  would 
be  displeasing  him,  disappointing  their  friends,  and  disobeying 
God  if  they  postponed  bodily  vigor  to  the  mistaken  requirements 
of  Jiterary  ambition. 

I  am  not  aware  that  the  term  Muscular  Christianity  was  ever 
applied  by  Dr.  Arnold,  or  was  ever  used  in  his  time ;  but  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  he  who  first  gave  the  broad  and 
wholesome  impulse  which  has  culminated  in  the  habit  of  thought 
described  by  that  facetious  expression,  and  that  it  was  his  influ- 
ence which  produced  such  heroes  and  scholars  as  Charles  Kings- 
ley,  Dean  Stanley,  and  Thomas  Hughes  —  a  race  of  men  as  su- 
perior to  the  type  represented  by  Kirke  White  as  Shakespeare  is 
superior  to  Tupper,  as  harmony  and  power  are  to  inanity,  as  physi- 
cal jubilance  is  to  headache  and  heartburn,  as  common  sense  is  to 
nonsense,  as  reality  is  to  moonshine.  .  .  . 

Muscular  Christianity  seems  to  me  to  be  a  vindication  of  the  full 
nobleness  of  meaning  contained  in  the  word  Education  /  That 
glorious  word,  so  much  used,  so  much  abused,  grasps  within  its 
golden  rim  everything  which  can  develop,  strengthen,  harmonize, 
and  intensify,  and  render  effective  all  those  faculties  of  our  entire 
nature,  intellectual  and  corporeal,  which  the  Creator  has  endowed  us 
with  ;  and  in  the  logical  application  of  this  truth,  it  stands  forth  in 
assertion  of  the  long-despised  and  repudiated  claims  of  the  body.  It 
says  that  since  every  part  of  our  nature  is  the  sacred  gift  of  God,  he 
who  neglects  his  body,  who  calumniates  his  body,  who  misuses  it, 
who  allows  it  to  grow  up  puny,  frail,  sickly,  misshapen,  homely, 
commits  a  sin  against  the  Giver  of  the  body.  Ordinarily,  therefore, 
disease  is  a  sin.  Round  shoulders  and  narrow  chests  are  states 
of  criminality.  Dyspepsia  is  heresy.  The  headache  is  infidelity. 
It  is  as  truly  a  man's  moral  duty  to  have  a  good  digestion,  and  sweet 
breath,  and  strong  arms,  and  stalwart  legs,  and  an  erect  bearing,  as 


THOMAS   BAILEY   ALDRICH.  f        569 

it  is  to  read  his  Bible,  or  say  his  prayers,  or  love  his  neighbor  as 
himself. 

Long  creeds,  either  for  churches  or  gymnasiums,  are  stumbling- 
blocks  and  snares.  The  creed  of  Muscular  Christianity  is  as  brief 
as  it  is  just,  comprehensive,  and  sublime  :  "  ALL  ATTAINABLE 

HEALTH  IS   A  DUTY;   ALL  AVOIDABLE   SICKNESS  IS  A  SIN." 


THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  November  n,  1836.  He  was 
employed  for  some  years  in  a  counting-room  in  New  York,  and  afterwards  became  a  reader 
for  a  publishing  house.  He  was  a  writer  for  the  Evening  Mirror,  the  Home  Journal,  and 
the  Saturday  Press,  of  New  York,  and  has  been  a  frequent  contributor,  both  of  prose  and 
verse,  to  the  magazines.  His  first  poems  were  published  in  1854,  entitled  The  Bells. 
Daisy's  Necklace  appeared  in  1856 ;  The  Ballad  of  Baby  Bell  and  Other  Poems,  and  The 
Course  of  True  Love,  in  1858  ;  Pampineia  in  1861 ;  and  later  collections  of  Poems  in  1863 
and  1865.  He  published  Out  of  His  Head,  a  prose  romance,  in  1862,  and  The  Story  of  a 
Bad  Boy  in  1869.  This  last  is  one  of  those  fortunate  books  that,  while  it  is  a  faithful  reflex 
of  the  thoughts,  feelings,  and  character  of  boys,  has  a  higher  meaning  for  men.  It 
breathes  a  noble  spirit,  and  is  a  genuine  boy's  book,  without  any  offensive  writing  down  to 
youthful  comprehension. 

Mr.  Aldrich's  poems  are  exquisitely  tender  in  sentiment,  graceful  in  movement,  and  evi- 
dently inspired  by  sympathy  with  nature.  Indeed  his  "call"  to  poetry  is  manifest,  and 
the  alternate  light  and  shadow  of  his  verses,  we  feel  sure,  have  been  reflected  from  his  own 
life.  His  poems  are  pure  as  pearls.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  reflect  that  among  all  the  writers 
of  popular  poetry  in  this  country  there  are  but  few  whose  lines  are  ever  discolored  by  pas- 
sion, or  who  do  not  show  that  true  beauty  is  at  accord  with  the  purest  morals  and  highest 
idea  of  right. 

CASTLES. 

THERE  is  a  picture  in  my  brain 
That  only  fades  to  come  again,  — 
The  sunlight  through  a  veil  of  rain 

To  leeward  gliding,    • 
A  narrow  stretch  of  brown  sea-sand, 
A  light-house  half  a  league  from  land, 
And  two  young  lovers,  hand  in  hand, 

A  castle  building. 

Upon  the  budded  apple  trees 
The  robins  sing  by  twos  and  threes, 
And  ever  at  the  faintest  breeze 
Down  drops  a  blossom  : 


57O       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

And  ever  would  that  lover  be 
The  wind  that  robs  the  bourgeoned  tree, 
And  lifts  the  soft  tress  daintily 
On  Beauty's  bosom. 

Ah,  graybeard,  what  a  happy  thing 
It  was,  when  life  was  in  its  spring, 
To  peep  through  Love's  betrothal  ring 

At  fields  Elysian,  — 
To  move  and  breathe  in  magic  air, 
To  think  that  all  that  seems  is  fair,  — 
Ah,  ripe  young  mouth  and  golden  hair, 

Thou  pretty  vision  ! 

Well,  well,  I  think  not  on  these  two 
But  the  old  wound  breaks  out  anew, 
And  the  old  dream,  as  if  'twere  true, 

In  my  heart  nestles  : 
Then  tears  come  welling  to  my  eyes, 
For  yonder,  all  in  saintly  guise, 
As  'twere,  a  sweet  dead  woman  lies 

Upon  the  trestles  1 


BEFORE   THE  RAIN. 

WE  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn, 

A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 
Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 

Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes,  and  swamps,  and  dismal  fens,  — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers, 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 
To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind,  —  and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain  1 


THOMAS    BAILEY    ALDRICH.  5/1 


AFTER   THE   RAIN. 

THE  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood  ; 

And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 

From  out  the  dripping  ivy  leaves, 
Antiquely  carven,  gray  and  high, 

A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye  : 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  globe  of  gold,  a  disk,  a  speck ; 

And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


PISCATAQUA   RIVER. 

THOU  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles, 
By  woods  and  fields  of  corn 

Thou  singest,  and  the  heaven  smiles 
Upon  my  birthday  morn. 

But  I  within  a  city,  I, 

So  full  of  vague  unrest, 
Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lie 

An  hour  upon  thy  breast ; 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go, 
And,  wrapt  in  dreamy  joy, 

Dip  and  surge  idly  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  red  harbor-buoy  ; 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence, 

To  rest  upon  the  oars, 
And  catch  the  heavy  earthy  scents 

That  blow  from  summer  shores ; 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 
And  with  its  parting  fires 

Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town, 
And  burn  the  tapering  spires  ! 
36 


5/2       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

And  then  to  hear  the  muffled  tolls 
From  steeples  slim  and  white, 

And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
The  Beacon's  orange  light. 

O  River  !  flowing  to  the  main 

Through  woods  and  fields  of  corn, 

Hear  thou  my  longing  and  my  pain 
This  sunny  birthday  morn  : 

And  take  this  song,  which  sorrow  shapes 

To  music  like  thine  own, 
And  sing  it  to  the  cliffs  and  capes 

And  crags  where  I  am  known. 


WILLIAM   DEAN   HOWELLS. 

William  Dean  Howells  was  born  in  Martinsville,  Belmont  County,  O.,  March  i,  1837. 
His  father,  who  was  a  printer  and  newspaper  publisher,  removed  to  Hamilton,  O.,  in  1840, 
and  in  his  office  the  son  learned  the  business.  He  was  afterwards  connected  with  the  Cin- 
cinnati Gazette  and  the  Ohio  State  Journal  (of  Columbus).  He  was  a  contributor  to  the 
Atlantic  Monthly,  and  other  magazines,  and  in  1860  published  a  volume  with  Mr.  J.  J. 
Piatt,  entitled  Poems  of  Two  Friends.  In  1861  he  was  appointed  consul  to  Venice,  where 
he  resided  until  1865.  In  July,  1870,  he  became  the  editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  Vene- 
tian Life,  was  published  in  1866;  Italian  Journeys  in  1867;  No  Love  Lost,  a  poem,  in 
1868  ;  Suburban  Sketches  in  1871  ;  Their  Wedding  Journey  in  1872. 

Mr.  Howells  writes  with  facility  and  elegance.  We  do  not  complain  that  he  is  not  pro- 
found ;  there  are  a  plenty  of  authors  who  are  ambitious  of  that  distinction.  His  observa- 
tions are  those  of  a  cultivated  man,  expressed  with  simplicity  and  feeling,  with  pleasing 
reminiscences  of  youthful  sentiment,  and  humor  of  a  quiet  kind.  His  sketches  of  Italian 
life  are  among  the  most  readable  of  modern  works  of  travel.  In  the  Suburban  Sketches  the 
author  discourses  upon  the  surroundings  of  Boston,  dealing  with  the  less  obvious  features, 
and  often  toying  with  a  subject  in  a  tantalizing  way.  In  the  account  of  the  Musical  Festi- 
val of  1869,  for  instance,  the  author  uses  his  most  dainty  touches  to  describe  the  "side 
shows,"  and  to  paint  for  us  the  Huldahs  and  Zekiels  who  came  down  to  the  Jubilee,  but 
he  has  not  set  down  a  word  "  with  blood  in  it "  for  the  grandeur  of  that  incomparable 
chorus.  One  scene  in  the  volume  is  drawn  with  a  masterly  hand.  It  arrests  the  attention 
and  haunts  the  memory  like  an  imagined  tableau  by  Gerome,  composed  for  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs.  It  is  no  dilettante  artist  that  conceived  and  executed  that  sketch. 

Mr.  Howells's  poems  have  many  fine  points.  The  Movers,  printed  here,  is  a  piece  of 
realism  which  carries  its  own  warrant  of  truth  in  every  line.  All  his  poems  have  graceful 
turns  of  thought,  and  leave  an  abiding  impression  of  artistic  feeling  and  melody. 


WILLIAM   DEAN    HOWELLS.  5/3 

[From  Suburban  Sketches.] 

IN  winter,  the  journey  to  or  from  Boston  cannot  appear  otherwise 
than  very  dreary  to  the  fondest  imagination.  Coming  out,  nothing 
can  look  more  arctic  and  forlorn  than  the  river,  double-shrouded  in 
ice  and  snow,  or  sadder  than  the  contrast  offered  to  the  same  pros- 
pect in  summer.  Then  all  is  laughing,  and  it  is  a  joy  in  every  nerve 
to  ride  out  over  the  Long  Bridge  at  high  tide,  and,  looking  south- 
ward, to  see  the  wide  crinkle  and  glitter  of  that  beautiful  expanse  of 
water,  which  laps  on  one  hand  the  granite  quays  of  the  city,  and  on 
the  other  washes  among  the  weeds  and  wild  grasses  of  the  salt  mead- 
ows. A  ship  coming  slowly  up  the  channel,  or  a  dingy  tug  vio- 
lently darting  athwart  it,  gives  an  additional  pleasure  to  the  eye,  and 
adds  something  dreamy  or  vivid  to  the  beauty  of  the  scene.  It  is 
hard  to  say  at  what  hour  of  the  summer's  day  the  prospect  is  love- 
liest ;  and  I  am  certainly  not  going  to  speak  of  the  sunset  as  the 
least  of  its  delights.  When  this  exquisite  spectacle  is  presented,  the 
horse-car  passenger,  happy  to  cling  with  one  foot  to  the  rear  plat- 
form steps,  looks  out  over  the  shoulder  next  him  into  fairy  land. 
Crimson  and  purple,  the  bay  stretches  westward  till  its  waves  darken 
into  the  grassy  levels,  where,  here  and  there,  a  hayrick  shows  per- 
fectly black  against  the  light.  Afar  off,  south-eastward  and  west- 
ward, the  uplands  wear  a  tinge  of  tenderest  blue,  and  in  the  nearer 
distance,  on  the  low  shores  of  the  river,  hover  the  white  plumes  of 
arriving  and  departing  trains.  The  windows  of  the  stately  houses 
that  overlook  the  water  take  the  sunset  from  it  evanescently,  and 
begin  to  chill  and  darken  before  the  crimson  burns  out  of  the  sky. 
The  windows  are,  in  fact,  best  after  nightfall,  when  they  are  bril- 
liantly lighted  from  within,  and  when,  if  it  is  a  dark,  warm  night,  and 
the  briny  fragrance  comes  up  strong  from  the  falling  tide,  the  lights, 
reflected  far  down  on  the  still  water,  bring  a  dream,  as  I  have  heard 
travelled  Bostonians  say,  of  Venice  and  her  magical  effects  in  the 
same  kind.  But  for  me  the  beauty  of  the  scene  needs  the  help  of  no 
such  association  ;  I  am  content  with  it  for  what  it  is.  I  enjoy  also 
the  hints  of  spring  which  one  gets  in  riding  over  the  Long  Bridge  at 
low  tide  in  the  first  open  days.  Then  there  is  not  only  a  vernal 
beating  of  carpets  on  the  piers  of  the  drawbridge,  but  the  piles  and 
walls,  left  bare  by  the  receding  water,  show  green  patches  of  sea- 
weeds and  mosses,  and  flatter  the  willing  eye  with  a  dim  hint  of 
summer.  This  reeking  and  saturated  herbage,  —  which  always  seems 
to  me,  in  contrast  with  dry  land  growths,  what  the  water-logged  life 


5/4       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

of  seafaring  folk  is  to  that  which  we  happier  men  lead  on  shore,  — 
taking  so  kindly  the  deceitful  warmth  and  brightness  of  the  sun,  has 
then  a  charm  which  it  loses  when  summer  really  comes  ;  nor  does 
one  later  have  so  keen  an  interest  in  the  men  wading  about  in  the 
shallows  below  the  bridge,  who,  as  in  the  distance  they  stoop  over 
to  gather  whatever  shell-fish  they  seek,  make  a  very  fair  show  of 
being  some  ungainlier  sort  of  storks,  and  are  as  near  as  we  can  hope 
to  come  to  the  spring-prophesying  storks  of  song  and  story.  A  sen- 
timent of  the  drowsiness  that  goes  before  the  awakening  of  the  year, 
and  is  so  different  from  the  drowsiness  that  precedes  the  great 
autumnal  slumber,  is  in  the  air,  but  is  gone  when  we  leave  the  river 
behind  and  strike  into  the  straggling  village  beyond. 


[From  Poems  of  Two  Friends.] 
THE  MOVERS. 

PARTING  was  over  at  last,  and  all  the  good-bys  had  been  spoken. 
Up  the  long  hill-side  the  white-tented  wagon  moved  slowly, 
Bearing  the  mother  and  children,  while  onward  before  them  the 

father 
Trudged  with  his  gun  on  his  arm,  and  the  faithful  house-dog  beside 

him, 
Grave  and  sedate,  as  if  knowing  the  sorrowful  thoughts  of  his  master. 

April  was  in  her  prime,  and  the  day  in  its  dewy  awaking : 
Like  a  great  flower,  afar  on  the  crest  of  the  eastern  woodland, 
Goldenly  bloomed  the  sun,  and  over  the  beautiful  valley, 
Dim  with  its  dew  and  shadow,  and  bright  with  its  dream  of  a  river, 
Looked  to  the  western  hills,  and  shone  on  the  humble  procession, 
Paining  with   splendor  the  children's  eyes,  and  the  heart  of  the 
mother. 

Beauty,  and  fragrance,  and  song  filled  the  air  like  a  palpable  presence. 
Sweet  was  the  smell  of  the  dewy  leaves  and  the  flowers  in  the  wild 

wood, 

Fair  the  long  reaches  of  sun  and  shade  in  the  aisles  of  the  forest. 
Glad  of  the  spring,  and  of  love,  and  of  morning,  the  wild  birds  were 

singing : 

Jays  to  each  other  called  harshly,  then  mellowly  fluted  together ; 
Sang  the  oriole  songs  as  golden  and  gay  as  his  plumage  ; 


WILLIAM   DEAN    HOWELLS.  575 

Pensively  piped  the  querulous  quails  their  greetings  unfrequent, 
While,  on  the  meadow-elm,  the  meadow-lark  gushed  forth  in  music, 
Rapt,  exultant,  and  shaken,  with  the  great  joy  of  his  singing  ; 
Over  the  river,  loud-chattering,  aloft  in  the  air,  the  kingfisher 
Hung,  ere  dropped,  like  a  bolt,  in  the  water  beneath  him  ; 
Gossiping,  out  of  the  bank  flew  myriad  twittering  swallows  ; 
And  in  the  boughs  of  the  sycamore  quarrelled  and  clamored  the 
blackbirds. 

Never  for  these  things  a  moment  halted  the  movers,  but  onward, 
Up  the  long  hill-side,  the  white-tented  wagon  moved  slowly, 
Till,  on  the  summit,  that  overlooked  all  the  beautiful  valley, 
Trembling  and  spent,  the  horses  came  to  a  stand-still  unbidden  ; 
Then  from  the  wagon  the  mother  in  silence  got  down  with  her  chil- 
dren, 
Came  and  stood  by  the  father,  and  rested  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Long  together  they  gazed  on  the  beautiful  valley  before  them ; 

Looked  on  the  well-known  fields  that  stretched  away  to  the  wood- 
lands, 

Where,  in  the  dark  lines  of  green,  showed  the  milk-white  crest  of  the 
dogwood, 

Snow  of  wild-plums  in  bloom,  and  crimson  tints  of  the  red-bud  ; 

Looked  on  the  pasture  fields,  where  the  cattle  were  lazily  grazing  — 

Softly,  and  sweet,  and  thin  came  the  faint,  far  notes  of  the  cow- 
bells ;  — 

Looked  on  the  oft-trodden  lanes,  with  their  elder  and  blackberry 
borders  ; 

Looked  on  the  orchard,  a  bloomy  sea,  with  its  billows  of  blos- 
soms. 

Fair  was  the  scene,  yet  suddenly  strange  and  all  unfamiliar, 

•Like  as  the  faces  of  friends,  when  the  word  of  farewell  has  been 
spoken. 

Long  together  they  gazed  ;  then  at  last  on  the  little  log-cabin  — 
Home  for  so  many  years,  now  home  no  longer  forever  — 
Rested  their  tearless  eyes  in  the  silent  rapture  of  anguish. 
Up  on  the  morning  air  no  column  of  smoke  from  the  chimney 
Wavering,  silver  and  azure,  rose,  fading  and  brightening  ever  ; 
Shut  was  the  door  where  yesterday  morning  the  children  were  play 


5/6       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Lit  with  a  gleam  of  the  sun  the  window  stared  up  at  them  blindly  ; 
Cold  was  the  hearthstone  now,  and  the  place  was  forsaken  and 
•empty. 

Empty  ?    Ah,  no  !  but  haunted  by  thronging  and  tenderest  fancies, 

Sad  recollections  of  all  that  had  ever  been,  of  sorrow  or  gladness, 

Once  more  they  sat  in  the  glow  of  the  wide  red  fire  in  the  winter  ; 

Once  more  they  sat  by  the  door  in  the  cool  of  the  still  summer  even- 
ing; 

Once  more  the  mother  seemed  to  be  singing  her  babe  there  to  slum- 
ber; 

Once  more  the  father  beheld  her  weep  o'er  the  child  that  was  dying  ; 

Once  more  the  place  was  peopled  by  all  the  Past's  sorrow  and  glad- 
ness ! 

Neither  might  speak  for  the  thoughts  that  came  crowding  their 
hearts  so, 

Till,  in  their  ignorant  sorrow,  aloud  the  children  lamented ; 

Then  was  the  spell  of  silence  dissolved,  and  the  father  and  mother 

Burst  into  tears  and  embraced,  and  turned  their  dim  eyes  to  the 
westward. 


FRANCIS   BRET   HARTE. 

Francis  Bret  Harte  was  born  in  Albany,  N.  Y.,  in  the  year  1837.  He  was  an  infant  when 
his  father  died,  and  at  the  age  of  seventeen  he  went  to  California,  where  he  taught  school, 
worked  in  the  mines,  became  a  compositor,  and  at  length  an  editor.  He  was  employed  for 
some  time  in  government  offices.  In  1868  he  founded  the  Overland  Monthly,  and  was  its 
first  editor.  In  this  magazine  he  published  the  poems,  tales,  and  sketches  that  have  made 
him  better  known,  probably,  than  any  writer  of  his  age  in  the  world.  His  poems  are  in 
various  moods, —some  characterized  by  tender  beauty,  some  by  manly  vigor,  —  but  most 
of  them  full  of  rollicking  humor,  and  expressed  in  the  audaciously  picturesque  slang  of 
the  Pacific  roughs.  The  Address  to  the  Pliocene  Skull,  the  Story  of  Dow's  Flat,  and  Alkali 
Station,  are  masterpieces  in  their  way,  and  far  above  the  level  of  The  Heathen  Chinee, 
which  so  moved  the  public  to  mirth.  His  genius  is  most  conspicuous,  we  think,  in  his 
prose.  We  use  the  word  "genius  "  advisedly,  for  the  power  to  create  characters  and  place 
them  in  living  relations  with  each  other  in  vivid  scenes,  as  we  see  them  in  The  Outcasts  of 
Poker  Plat  and  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  is  an  original  gift,  —  as  far  beyond  the  reach 
of  art  as  the  creation  of  a  rose.  The  vices  of  the  miners,  gamblers,  and  ruffians  are  unfor- 
tunately inseparable  from  their  other  strong  features ;  and  these  stories,  though  they  may 
be  read  by  pure-minded  people  (with  charitable  allowances),  are  not  at  all  "milk  for  babes," 
and  could  not  be  properly  included  in  a  work  like  this. 

The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  and  Other  Tales  was  published  in  1869 ;  Poems  in  1870, 
also  Condensed  Novels  ;  East  and  West  Poems  in  1872. 

Mr.  Harte  is  now  engaged  in  writing  for  the  Atlantic  Monthly.       ^ 


FRANCIS    BRET    HARTE.  S77 


JOHN   BURNS    OF   GETTYSBURG. 

HAVE  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 

Of  Burns  of  Gettysburg  ?  —  No  ?    Ah,  well : 

Brief  is  the  glory  that  hero  earns, 

Briefer  the  story  of  poor  John  Burns  : 

He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown,  — 

The  only  man  who  didn't  back  down 

When  the  rebels  rode  through  his  native  town  ; 

But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day, 

When  all  his  townsfolk  rari  away. 

That  was  in  July,  sixty-three, 

The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 

Flower  of  Southern  chivalry, 

Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 

From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field. 

I  might  tell  how,  but  the  day  before, 

John  Burns  stood  at  his  cottage-door, 

Looking  down  the  village  street, 
Where,  in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine, 
He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine, 

And  felt  their  breath  with  incense  sweet ; 
Or  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned 
The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 
The  milk  that  fell,  in  a  babbling  flood 
Into  the  milk-pail,  red  as  blood  ! 
Or  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees 
Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees. 
But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 
Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 
Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns, 
Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 
Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed  kine,  — 
Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 
Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 
That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folks  say, 
He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 

And  it  was  terrible.     On  the  right 
Raged  for  hours  the  heady  fight, 
37 


578       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass,  — 

Difficult  music  for  men  to  face  ; 

While  on  the  left,  —  where  now  the  graves 

Undulate  like  the  living  waves 

That  all  that  day  unceasing  swept 

Up  to  the  pits  the  rebels  kept, — 

Round  shot  ploughed  the  upland  glades, 

Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades  ; 

Shattered  fences  here  and  there 

Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air ; 

The  very  trees  were  stripped  and  bare ; 

The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 

Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the  slain  ; 

The  cattle  bellowed  on  the  plain, 

The  turkeys  screamed  with  might  and  main, 

And  brooding  barn-fowl  left  their  rest 

With  strange  shells  bursting  in  each  nest. 

Just  where  the  tide  of  battle  turns, 

Erect  and  lonely  stood  old  John  Burns. 

How  do  you  think  the  man  was  dressed  ? 

He  wore  an  ancient  long  buff  vest, 

Yellow  as  saffron,  —  but  his  best ; 

And,  buttoned  over  his  manly  breast, 

Was  a  bright  blue  coat,  with  a  rolling  collar, 

And  large  gilt  buttons,  —  size  of  a  dollar,  — 

With  tails  that  the  country-folk  called  "  swaller." 

He  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  bell-crowned  hat, 

White  as  the  locks  on  which  it  sat. 

Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen 

For  forty  years  on  the  village  green, 

Since  old  John  Burns  was  a  country  beau, 

And  went  to  the  "  quiltings  "  long  ago. 

Close  at  his  elbows  all  that  day, 

Veterans  of  the  Peninsula, 

Sunburnt  and  bearded,  charged  away  ; 

And  striplings,  downy  of  lip  and  chin,  — 

Clerks  that  the  Home  Guard  mustered  in,  — 

Glanced,  as  they  passed,  at  the  hat  he  wore, 

Then  at  the  rifle  his  right  hand  bore  ; 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE.  579 

And  hailed  him,  from  out  their  youthful  lore, 

With  scraps  of  a  slangy  repertoire  : 

"  How  are  you,  white  hat  ?"     "  Put  her  through  ! " 

"  Your  head's  level,"  and  "  Bully  for  you  !  " 

Called  him  "  Daddy,"  —  begged  he'd  disclose 

The  name  of  the  tailor  who  made  his  clothes, 

And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those ; 

While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  and  scoff, 

Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off,  — 

With  his  long  brown  rifle,  and  bell-crown  hat, 

And  the  swallow-tails  they  were  laughing  at. 

'Twas  but  a  moment,  for  that  respect 

Which  clothes  all  courage  their  voices  checked ; 

And  something  the  wildest  could  understand 

Spake  in  the  old  man's  strong  right  hand; 

And  his  corded  throat,  and  the  lurking  frown 

Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  own  bell-crown  ; 

Until,  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an  awe 

Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men  saw, 

In  the  antique  vestments  and  long  white  hair, 

The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  battle  there  ; 

And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 

That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afar, 

Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 

That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

So  raged  the  battle.     You  know  the  rest : 
How  the  rebels,  beaten  and  backward  pressed, 
Broke,  at  the  final  charge,  and  ran. 
At  which  John  Burns  —  a  practical  man  — 
Shouldered  his  rifle,  unbent  his  brows, 
And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns  ; 
This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns  : 
In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question's  whether 
You'll  show  a  hat  that's  white,  or  a  feather  ! 


5$O  HAND-BOOK   OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


DICKENS    IN   CAMP. 

ABOVE  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

The  river  sang  below  ;  • 

The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth  ; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew, 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure 

To  hear  the  tale  anew  ; 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  faster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  "  Little  Nell." 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  fancy, — for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all,  — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall ; 

The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  every  spray, 
While  the  whole  camp,  with  "  Nell "  on  English  meadows, 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes  —  o'ertaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine  — 
Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire  : 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell  ?  — 
Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 


GAIL    HAMILTON.  $81 

Lost  is  that  camp  !  but  let  its  fragrant  story 

Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 
With  hop-vines'  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 

That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  entwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly,  — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine  ! 


"GAIL   HAMILTON." 

In  place  of  the  usual  biographical  information,  we  present  the  following  extract  from  the 
preface  to  Country  Living  and  Country  Thinking  written  by  this  author  :  — 

"I  know  that  I  can  bear  censure  ;  I  think  I  could  endure  neglect;  but  there  is  one  thing 
which  I  will  never  forgive,  and  that  is  any  encroachment  upon  my  personality.  Whatever 
an  author  puts  between  the  two  covers  of  his  book  is  public  property  ;  whatever  of  himself  he 
does  not  put  there  is  his  private  property,  as  much  as  if  he  had  never  written  a  word.  I  do 
not  say  that  any  information  which  may  be  gathered,  or  any  conjecture  which  may  be 
hazarded,  concerning  the  man  or  the  woman  who  stands  behind  the  mask  of  the  author,  may 
not  be  a  lawful  theme  of  conversation,  if  people  are  interested  enough  to  make  it  so  ;  but 
the  appearance  of  any  such  information  or  conjecture  in  any  public  print,  whether  in  the 
form  of  book  notice  or  news  item,  I  consider  an  unpardonable  impertinence." 

Gail  Hamilton's  writings  have  a  very  decided  character,  and,  in  some  respects,  offer  a 
strong  and  desirable  contrast  to  the  colorless  inanities  printed  in  ladies'  magazines  twenty- 
five  years  ago,  and  then  considered  to  be  proper  models  —  or  literary  fashion-plates  —  for 
female  authors.  Her  discussions  have  covered  a  wide  ranger  but  in  nearly  everything  she 
has  written  we  see  that  the  motive  force  lies  in  her  intense  abhorrence  of  the  present  relative 
position  of  the  sexes  in  law  and  in  society.  With  such  feelings  and  convictions  there  can  be 
no  repose.  Every  book  is  a  battle,  every  chapter  a  skirmish,  every  sentence  a  blow  or  a 
defiance.  The  pugnacious  tone,  if  not  innate,  becomes  thus  a  second  nature,  and  denun- 
ciation, in  gcod  vigorous  Saxon  (with  some  modern  phrases  not  yet  in  the  dictionaries), 
may  be  looked  for  at  any  moment. 

Our  judgments  of  the  author  are  of  course  derived  from  her  works.  We  should  say  that 
she  exhibits  unusually  contradictory  qualities.  She  has  more  common  sense  and  less  dis- 
cretion than  any  woman  we  now  remember.  She  reverences  manhood  and  hates  men. 
She  has  given  her  sex  the  best  possible  advice  for  their  culture,  their  health,  their  domestic 
habits,  and  she  berates  them  for  their  content  in  their  inevitable  lot.  She  argues  tena- 
ciously like  one  sex  and  scolds  like  the  other.  She  writes  with  an  easy  mastery  of  English 
that  a  professor  might  envy,  but  is  certain  to  brin^  in  some  unpardonable  sling  before  fin- 
ishing an  article.  Where  she  has  least  knowledge  she  treads  with  most  confidence.  Greatly 
indebted,  as  all  sprightly  essayists  are,  to  other  thinkers,  she  is  unconscious  that  her  wisdom 
is  not  of  her  own  quarrying.  With  natural  gifts  of  observation,  with  a  natural  s?nse  of 
beauty,  and  a  fund  of  natural  humor,  that  should  make  her  one  of  the  most  delightful  of 
essayists,  she  seems  to  prefer  the  part  of  a  wayward  malcontent,  and  to  indite  what  is  irri- 
tating rather  than  whit  is  amiable. 

With  due  respect  for  her  great  talents,  and  making  allowances  for  the  state  of  mind  pro- 


5  82       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

duced  by  a  constant  sense  of  injustice,  we  think  the  cause  of  woman's  elevation  is  not  to  be 
finally  won  by  argument  alone.  Woman  may  be  raised  to  an  equal  position  with  man  ;  but 
that  will  happen  when,  by  the  renunciation  of  playthings,  by  emancipation  from  fashion,  by 
development  of  her  moral  and  intellectual  powers,  and  by  assuming  a  proper  share  of  the 
burdens  of  the  world,  she  has  shown  that  she  is  fitted  to  maintain  that  equality. 

Among  the  works  of  this  author  are  Country  Living  and  Country  Thinking  (1862)  ;  Gala 
Days  (1863);  A  New  Atmosphere  (1864);  Stumbling  Blocks  (1864),  Skirmishes  and 
Sketches  (1865)  ;  Summer  Rest  (1866) ;  Red  Letter  Days  (1866)  ;  Wool  Gathering  (1867)  -, 
Woman's  Wrongs,  a  Counter  Irritant  (1868);  Battle  of  the  Books  (1870);  and  Woman's 
Worth  and  Worthlessness  (1871).  She  is  said  to  be  at  present  (1872)  the  editor  of  Wood's 
Household  Magazine,  published  at  Newburg,  N.  Y. 

[From  Country  Living  and  Country  Thinking.] 
MEN   AND   WOMEN. 

—  MAN,  too,  is  independent.  He  goes  where  and  when  he  lists. 
He  need  not  be  rich  to  gaze  upon  all  the  wonders  of  the  new  world, 
all  the  magnificence  of  the  old.  He  can  shoulder  his  knapsack,  and 
traverse  the  globe.  Every  spot  consecrated  by  genius,  patriotism, 
suffering,  love,  is  spread  out  before  him.  Whatever  of  beautiful, 
grand,  or  glorious  is  to  be  found  in  art  or  nature  is  his.  He  can 
people  his  brain  with  memories  that  will  never  die,  adorn  it  with  pic- 
tures whose  colors  will  never  fade,  treasure  up  untold  wealth  for  his 
soul  to  feed  on  in  future  years. 

If  the  day's  long  toil  leave  him  restless,  if  throbbing  heart  or  ach- 
ing head  crave  a  draught  of  pure  elixir,  if  the  murmur  of  the  water- 
fall, the  glow  of  the  stars,  or  the  ever  new  splendor  of  the  moon  lure 
him  out  into  the  night,  he  goes,  and  the  hush  and  solitude  bring 
him  rest  and  healing ;  the  night  sweeps  into  his  soul,  and  cools  the 
fever  in  his  veins.  The  world  recedes.  He  stands  face  to  face  with 
God.  He  receives  again  the  breath  of  life,  and  becomes  a  living 
soul. 

Alas,  fora  woman  !  She  can  never  do  a  thing,  except  gregariously. 
She  has  no  solitude  except  in  the  house,  which  is  no  solitude  at  all. 
She  is  always  at  the  mercy  of  others'  whims,  caprices,  tastes,  busi- 
ness engagements,  or  headaches.  If  she  travels,  she  must  partially 
accommodate  herself  to  somebody's  convenience.  She  must  go  in 
the  beaten  track.  Her  eyes  must  look  right  on,  and  her  eyelids 
straight  before  her.  There  are  no  wild  wanderings  at  her  own  sweet 
will,  no  experimental  deviations  from  the  prescribed  route,  no  haz- 
ardous but  delightful  flying  off  in  a  tangent  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment.  She  cannot  separate  herself  from  the  past,  slough  off  her 
identity,  and  become  a  new  being  in  new  scenes.  She  must  take  her 
(Ad  associations  with  her,  and  they  are  a  robe  of  oiled  silk,  effectually 


GAIL    HAMILTON.  583 

excluding  the  new  atmosphere  which  should  penetrate  to  the  very 
sources  of  life.  She  cannot  enjoy  in  quietness  and  silence.  She  is 
one  of  a  party,  and  must  go  into  a  rapture  here  and  an  ecstasy  there, 
and  give  a  definite  reason  for  both.  She  must  be  wakened  from  a 
trance  of  delight  by  a  lisped  "  How  beautiful !  "  or  a  quotation  from 
Byron,  by  some  one  whose  knowledge  of  Byron  is  derived  from  a 
gilt  volume  of '"Elegant  Extracts,"  or  the  "American  First  Class 
Book."  It  is  very  appalling.  .  .  . 


THE   REACH   OF  INFLUENCE. 

IT  is  not  necessarily  the  man  who  comes  in  contact  with  the  largest 
number  of  people  who  exercises  the  most  influence.  It  may  be  so, 
but  it  does  not  follow,  and  we  do  not  know  whether  it  is  or  not. 
When  John  Bunyan  was  cast  into  Bedford  jail,  there  were  doubtless 
many  pious  souls  who  mourned  that  the  zeal  and  power  of  his  best 
years  should  be  thus  wasted ;  yet  through  those  prison  walls  there 
streams  a  light  which  will  grow  brighter  and  brighter  till  lost  in  the 
glory  of  the  Celestial  City.  Every  person  is  responsible  for  all  the 
good  within  the  scope  of  his  abilities,  and  for  no  more,  — and  none 
can  tell  whose  sphere  is  the  largest.  A  mother,  tending  her  child 
in  the  quiet  seclusion  of  a  Virginian  home,  sees  no  foreshadowing 
of  a  mighty  destiny,  yet  there  comes  a  day  when  an  empire's  fate 
trembles  in  the  tiny  hand  now  clasping  hers.  It  is  therefore  imper- 
tinent to  assume  that  the  responsibility  of  teachers,  or  of  any  one 
class  of  people,  is  greater  than  that  of  any  other.  The  only  differ- 
ence is,  that  one  influences  at  first  hand,  another  at  second  or  third. 
At  every  foot-fall  we  set  in  motion  a  chord  whose  trembling  thrills 
ten  thousand  more,  and  will  quiver  on  eternally.  Every  thought, 
and  word,  and  deed  of  every  human  being  is  followed  by  its  inevitable 
consequence  :  for  the  one  we  are  responsible  ;  with  the  other  we 
have  nothing  to  do. 

[From  the  Same.] 
MAKING   BROWN   BREAD   CAKES. 

LET  me  give  the  modus  operandi.  Of  fine  maize  flour,  yellow  as 
the  locks  of  the  lovely  Lenore,  take  —  well,  take  enough  —  I  can- 
not tell  exactly  how  much  ;  it  depends  upon  circumstances."  Of 
fresh  new  milk,  white  as  the  brow  of  the  charming  Arabella,  take 
—  I  don't  know  exactly  how  much  of  that,  either;  it  depends 


584  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

upon  circumstances,  particularly  on  the  quantity  of  meal.  If  you 
have  not  new  milk,  take  blue  milk,  provided  it  be  sweet;  or,  if 
you  have  none  that  is  sweet,  sour  milk  will  answer;  or,  if  "your 
folks  don't  keep  a  cow,"  take  water,  clear  and  sparkling  as  the 
eyes  of  the  peerless  Amanda  ;  but  whether  it  be  milk  or  water, 
let  it  be  scalding  as  the  tears  of  the  outraged  Isabel.  Of  molasses, 
sweet  as  the  tones  of  the  tuneful  Lisette,  take  —  a  great  deal,  if 
it  is  summer ;  in  the  winter  not  quite  so  much  (for  the  reasons 
therefor,  see  Newton's  Treatise  on  the  Expansive  Power  of  Fluids, 
vol.  L,  p.  175).  Of  various  other  substances,  animal,  vegetable, 
and  mineral,  which  it  becomes  not  me  to  mention,  —  first^  because 
I  have  forgotten  what  they  are  ;  secondly,  because  I  never  knew; 
and  thirdly,  because,  as  the  immortal  Toots  remarks,  "  it  is  of  no 
consequence,"  —  take  whatever  seems  good  in  your  sight,  and  cast 
them  together  into  the  kneading-trough,  and  knead  with  all  your 
might  and  main.  Provide  yourself,  then,  with  a  tin  plate,  not  bright 
and  new,  for  so  will  your  cakes  be  heavy,  your  crust  cracked,  and 
your  soul  sorrowful,  but  one  blackened  by  fire,  and  venerable  with 
time,  and  rough  with  service.  With  your  own  roseate  fingers 
scoop  out  a  portion  of  the  pulpy  mass.  Fear  not  to  touch  it ;  it 
is  soft,  yielding,  and  plastic  as  the  heart  of  the  affectionate  Clara. 
Turn  it  lovingly  over  in  your  hands  ;  round  it ;  mould  it ;  caress 
it ;  soften  down  its  asperities  ;  smooth  off  its  angularities  ;  repress 
its  bold  protuberances  ;  encourage  its  timid  shrinkings  ;  and  when 
it  is  smooth  as  the  velvet  cheek  of  Ida,  and  oval  as  the  classic 
face  of  Helen,  give  one  "last,  long,  lingering  look,"  and  lay  it 
tenderly  in  the  swart  arms  of  its  tutelau  plate.  Repeat  the  pro- 
cess until  your  cakes  shall  equal  the  sands  on  the  sea  shore,  or  the 
stars  in  the  sky  for  multitude,  or  as  long  as  your  meal  holds  out, 
or  till  you  are  tired.  I  am  prescribing  for  one  only.  Ab  uno  discs 
omnes. 

To  the  Stygian  cave,  that  yawns  dismally  from,  the  kitchen  stove, 
consign  it  without  a  murmur.  Item:  said  stove  must  have  a  pro- 
digious crack  up  and  down  the  front.  A  philosophical  reason  for 
this  I  am  unable  to  give.  I  refer  the  curious  in  cause  and  effect 
to  Galen's  deservedly  celebrated  Disquisition  on  the  Relations  of 
Fire  and  Metals,  passim;  also,  Debrauche  on  Dough,  p.  35,  Appen- 
dix. I  only  know  that  the  only  stove  whence  I  ever  saw  brown 
bread  "cakes  issue  had  an  immense  crack  up  and  down  the  front. 
[Since  writing  the  above,  a  new  stove  has  been  substituted  for  the 
old  one,  and  still  brown  bread 'cakes  are  duly  marshalled  every  morn* 


GAIL    HAMILTON.  585 

ing.  Consequently  you  need  not  be  particular  about  the  crack. 
Still,  I  would  advise  all  amateurs  to  consult  the  authorities  I  have 
mentioned.  It  will  be  a  good  exercise.] 

When  your  cake  has  for  a  sufficient  length  of  time  undergone  the 
ordeal  of  fire,  bring  it  again  to  the  blessed  light  of  day.  If  the  edge 
be  black  and  blistered,  like  a  giant  tree  blasted  by  the  lightning's 
stroke,  or  if  the  crust  be  rent  and  torn  as  by  internal  convulsions, 
cast  it  away.  It  is  worthless.  Trample  it  under  foot.  Item  :  put 
on  your  stoutest  boots,  and  provide  yourself  with  cork  soles  ;  other- 
wise the  trampling  may  prove  to  be  anything  but  an  agreeable  pas- 
time. J5ut  if  the  surface  be  a  beautiful  auburn  brown,  crisp,  brittle, 
and  unbroken,  — 

"Joy,  joy,  forever  !  your  task  is  done  ! 
The  gates  are  past,  and  breakfast  is  won  ;  " 

or,  as  the  clown  said  of  the  apple-dumplings,  "  Them's  the  jockeys 
for  me." 

If  you  are  an  outside  barbarian,  ignorant  of  the  refinements  of 
civilized  life,  you  will  at  once  proceed  to  cut  open  with  your  knife 
the  steaming  cake  as  you  would  an  oyster,  and  thereby  render  it 
heavy  as  the  heart  of  the  weeping  Niobe  ;  but  if  you  are  a  gentle- 
man and  a  scholar,  you  will  gently  sunder  its  clinging  sides  without 
"  armed  interference,"  and  so  preserve  its  spongy,  porous  texture. 
To  the  uninitiated  one  part  is  as  good  as  another  ;  but  let  me  con- 
fidentially whisper  in  your  ear,  if  it  should  be  your  duty  to  pass  the 
plate,  present  to  your  neighbor  that  side  which  bears  the  under-crust, 
as  that  is  liable  to  be  burnt  and  unpalatable,  and  reserve  to  your- 
self the  smoothly-rounded  upper-crust,  which  is  deliciously  tooth- 
some. Lay  your  portion  on  your  plate  crust  downward.  With 
your  own  polished  knife  (the  reason  of  this  you  will  presently  per- 
ceive) carve  from  the  ball  of  golden  butter  a  lump  of  magnificent 
dimensions.  Be  not  niggardly  in  this  respect.  Exercise  towards 
yourself  a  large-hearted  generosity  ;  for  butter  sinks  into  itself,  and 
in  itself  is  lost  with  wonderful  rapidity,  when  it  rests  on  a  pedestal 
of  hot  bread.  Press  your  butter,  still  adhering  to  your  knife,  down 
into  the  warm,  soft  bread,  in  various  places,  forming  little  wells, 
whose  walls  are  unctuous  with  the  melted  luxury,  and  then  —  O, 
THEN  !  but  I  cannot  sustain  the  picture  which  my  fancy  has 
drawn. 


586  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


JOAQUIN    MILLER. 

Cincinnatus  Heine  Miller  was  born  in  the  Wabash  District  of  Indiana,  November  10, 
1841.  When  he  was  thirteen  years  of  age  his  parents  emigrated  to  Oregon,  overland,  a  jour- 
ney of  five  months,  and  settled  in  the  Willamette  Valley.  The  boy  worked  on  the  farm  for 
three  years,  and  then  went  to  California  to  hunt  for  gold.  Though  he  had  had  but  the  slight- 
est opportunities  for  education,  he  showed  his  literary  tastes  early,  and  while  at  work  for  a 
company  of  miners  he  commenced  writing  verses.  When  it  was  suggested  to  him  that 
poetry  was  governed  by  fixed  rules,  he  broke  out  into  an  anathema  against  "  riih-um  and 
measurement,"  and  added,  "There's  the  ideas,  and  I  know  what  poetic  license  means." 
He  was  not  successful  as  a  miner,  and  led  for  several  years  a  wild  life  of  adventure  in  Cali- 
fornia and  Nevada,  then  with  Walker  in  Nicaragua,  and  afterwards  with  a  band  of  nomadic 
savages.  He  was  miner,  astrologer,  poet,  filibuster,  Indian  sachem,  and  roaming  herdsman. 
In  1860  he  returned  to  his  home  in  Oregon,  lamed  by  gunshot  and  arrow  wounds,  and  com- 
menced studying  law  in  Eugene,  the  county  seat  of  Lane  County.  The  next  year  he  went 
to  Idaho,  where  he  conducted  the  hazardous  but  remunerative  business  of  a  miners'  express. 
He  returned  to  Eugene,  and  edited  a  newspaper,  which  was  so  disloyal  as  to  be  suppressed 
by  the  military  authorities.  At  this  period  he  married  a  lady  who  had  been  a  poetical  con- 
tributor to  his  paper.  He  went  to  San  Francisco  for  a  lime,  and  next  removed  to  Eastern 
Oregon,  where,  in  1866  he  was  elected  county  judge,  an  office  which  he  held  until  1870.  In 
this  year  he  published,  in  a  small  volume,  a  poem  called  Songs  of  the  Sierras  (the  one  which 
is  now  entitled  Californian),  giving  his  name  as  Joaquin  Miller.  His  wife  having  obtained 
a  divorce  from  him,  he  made  provision  for  his  children,  and  went  to  England.  After  great 
difficulties  he  found  a  publisher  through  the  influence  of  the  poet  Rosetti.  His  poems  pro- 
duced a  great  sensation  in  both  hemispheres,  and  the  author  was  immediately  famous.  He 
returned  to  Oregon  in  October,  1871,  and  set  out  again  for  a  tour  through  California  and  the 
regions  southward. 

The  writer  in  the  Overland  Monthly,  from  whose  account  this  notice  is  abridged,  says  that 
the  poet  is  temperate,  modest,  quiet,  and  simple  in  his  tastes  and  dress  ;  and  that  in  person 
he  is  remarkable  only  for  his  profusion  of  long  yellow  hair,  and  for  the  fine  play  of  expres- 
sion that  illumines  his  wonderfully  delicate  and  sensitive  face. 

This  singular  career  gives  us  a  certain  interpretation  of  his  wild  and  vehement,  but  vivid- 
ly picturesque. verse.  He  describes  the  magnificent  scenery  of  the  Pacific  coast  as  though 
his  eyes  had  been  the  first,  and  only  ones,  to  behold  it.  His  pictures  are  the  original  studies 
of  a  strong  and  intensely  individual  mind.  There  is  no  vagueness,  no  uncertainty  in  his  free 
and  bold  touches.  The  persons  that  figure  in  his  stories  are  undoubted  portraits,  and  how- 
ever it  may  be  as  to  the  "one  virtue,"  their  names  were  surely  linked  to  the  "thousand 
crimes."  Take  Byron,  or  any  of  the  many  reflections  of  himself,  such  as  Lara  or  Manfred; 
make  him  forget  the  luxuries  of  cities,  but  keep  all  his  boiling  passions,  and  especially  his 
bitter  misanthropy ;  set  him  on  horseback  in  the  American  desert,  amidst  hostile  savages 
and  skulking  bandits  ;  let  him  banish  the  humanities  learned  at  Harrow,  and  paint  what  he 
should  see,  without  a  thought  of  "English  bards  or  Scotch  reviewers,"  and  he  would  crive  us 
something  like  the  thrilling  sensation  we  feel  in  following  the  adventures  of  Joaquin  Miller. 
It  is  too  soon  to  attempt  any  estimate  of  this  new  poet.  Should  he  continue  writing  with 
equal  vigor,  and  with  the  larger  scope  which  maturity  and  culture  bring,  he  may  in  some 
measure  give  a  new  direction  to  the  poetical  thought  of  the  times,  now  almost  wholly 
influenced  by  the  philosophical  school.  If  he  should  write  no  more,  he  will  be  remembered 
as  a  meteor  of  portentous  brilliancy,  while  the  great  stars  of  our  firmament  will  shine  on. 


JOAQUIN    MILLER. 


PASSAGES   FROM  A  POEM   ENTITLED   CALIFORNIAN. 


I  STAND  beside  the  mobile  sea  ; 

And  sails  are  spread,  and  sails  are  furled 

From  farthest  corners  of  the  world, 

And  fold  like  white  wings  wearily. 

Steamships  go  up,  and  some  go  down 

In  haste,  like  traders  in  a  town, 

And  seem  to  see  and  beckon  all. 

Afar  at  sea  some  white  shapes  flee, 

With  arms  stretched  like  a  ghost's  to  me, 

And  cloud-like  sails  far  blown  and  curled, 

Then  glide  down  to  the  under-world. 

As  if  blown  bare  in  winter  blasts 

Of  leaf  and  limb,  tall  naked  masts 

Are  rising  from  the  restless  sea, 

So  still  and  desolate  and  tall, 

I  seem  to  see  them  gleam  and  shine 

With  clinging  drops  of  dripping  brine. 

Broad  still  brown  wings  flit  here  and  there, 

Thin  sea-blue  wings  wheel  everywhere, 

And  white  wings  whistle  through  the  air : 

I  hear  a  thousand  sea-gulls  call. 

Behold  the  ocean  on  the  beach 

Kneel  lov.'ly  down  as  if  in  prayer. 

I  hear  a  moan  as  of  despair, 

While  far  at  sea  do  toss  and  reach 

Some  things  so  like  white  pleading  hands. 

The  ocean's  thin  and  hoary  hair 

Is  trailed  along  the  silvered  sands 

At  every  sigh  and  sounding  moan. 

'Tis  not  a  place  for  mirthfulness, 

But  meditation  deep,  and  prayer, 

And  kneel  ings  on  the  salted  sod, 

Where  man  must  own  his  littleness, 

And  know  the  mightiness  of  God. 

The  very  birds  shriek  in  distress, 

And  sound  the  ocean's  monotone. 

Afar  the  bright  Sierras  lie, 
A  swaying  line  of  snowy  white, 
A  fringe  of  heaven  hung  :n  sight 
Against  the  blue  base  of  the  sky. 

I  look  along  each  gaping  gorge, 

I  hear  a  thousand  sounding  strokes 

Like  giants  rending  giant  oaks, 

Or  brawny  Vulcan  at  his  forge  ; 

I  see  pick-axes  flash  and  shine 

And  great  wheels  whir'ing  in  a  mine. 

Here  winds  a  thick  and  yellow  thread, 


A  mossed  and  silver  stream  instead  ; 
And  trout  that  leaped  its  rippling  tide 
Have  turned  upon  their  sides  and  died. 

Curambo  !  what  a  cloud  of  dust 
Comes  dashing  down  like  driven  gust ! 
And  who  rides  rushing  on  the  sight 
Adown  yon  rocky  long  defile, 
Swift  as  an  eagle  in  his  flight, 
Fierce  as  a  winter's  storm  at  night 
Blown  from  the  bleak  Sierra's  height, 
Careering  down  some  yawning  £orge  ? 
His  face  is  flushed,  his  eye  is  wild, 
And  'neath  his  courser's  sounding  feet 
(A  glance  could  barely  be  more  fleet) 
The  rocks  are  flashing  like  a  forge. 
Such  reckless  rider  !     I  do  ween 
No  mortal  man  his  like  has  seen. 
And  yet,  but  for  his  long  scrape, 
All  flowing  loose,  and  black  as  crape, 
And  long  silk  locks  of  blackest  hair 
All  streaming  wildly  in  the  breeze, 
You  might  believe  him  in  a  chair, 
Or  chatting  at  some  country  fair 
With  a  friend  or  sefiorita  rare, 
He  rides  so  grandly  at  his  ease. 

But  now  he  grasps  a  tighter  rein, 

A  red  rein  wrought  in  golden  chain, 

And  in  his  tapidaros  stands, 

Half  turns  and  shakes  two  bloody  hands, 

And  shouts  defiance  at  his  foe  ; 

Now  lifts  his  broad  hat  from  his  brow 

As  if  to  challenge  fate,  and  now 

His  hand  drops  to  his  saddle-bow, 

And  clutches  something  gleaming  there 

As  if  to  something  more  than  dare, 

While  halts  the  foe  that  followed  fast 

As  rushing  wave  or  raving  blast, 

More  sudden-swift  than  though  were  prest 

All  bridle-bands  at  one  behest. 

What  crimes  have  made  that  red  hand  red? 
What  wrongs  have  written  that  young  face 
With  lines  of  thought  so  out  of  place  ? 
Where  flies  he  ?    And  from  whence  has  fled? 
And  what  his  lineage  and  race  ? 
What  glitters  in  his  heavy  belt? 
And  from  his  furred  catenas  gleam  ? 


588 


HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


What  on  his  bosom  that  doth  seem 
A  diamond  bright  or  dagger's  hilt  ? 
The  iron  hoofs  that  still  resound 
Like  thunder  from  the  yielding  ground 
Alone  reply  ;  and  now  the  plain, 
Quick  as  you  breathe  and  gaze  again, 
Is  won,  and  all  pursuit  is  vain. 

I  stand  upon  a  stony  rim, 
Stone-paved  and  patterned  as  a  street ; 
A  rock-lipped  canon  plunging  south, 
As  if  it  were  earth's  opened  mouth, 
Yawns  deep  and  darkling  at  my  feet ; 
So  deep,  so  distant,  and  so  dim 
Its  waters  wind,  a  yellow  thread, 
And  calls  so  faintly  and  so  far, 
I  turn  aside  my  swooning  head 
I  feel  a  fierce  impulse  to  leap 
Adown  the  beetling  precipice, 
Like  some  lone,  lost,  uncertain  star ; 
To  plunge  into  a  place  unknown, 
And  win  a  world  all,  all  my  own  ; 
Or  if  I  might  not  meet  that  bliss, 
At  least  escape  the  curse  of  this. 

I  gaze  again.     A  gleaming  star 
Shines  back  as  from  some  mossy  well 
Reflected  from  blue  fields  afar. 
Brown  ha%vks  are  wheeling  here  and  there, 
And  up  and  down  the  broken  wall 
Cling  clumps  of  dark  green  chaparral, 
While  from  the  rent  rocks,  gray  and  bare, 
Blue  junipers  hang  in  the  air. 

Here,  cedars  sweep  the  stream,  and  here, 
Among  the  boulders  mossed  and  brown 
That  time  and  storms  have  toppled  down 
From  towers  undefiled  by  man. 
Low  cabins  nestle  as  in  fear, 
And  look  no  taller  than  a  span. 
From  low  aud  shapeless  chimneys  rise 


Some  tall,  straight  columns  of  blue  smoke, 
And  weld  them  to  the  bluer  skies  ; 
While  sounding  down  the  sombre  gorge, 
I  hear  the  steady  pick-axe  stroke, 
As  if  upon  a  flashing  forge. 

Another  scene,  another  sound  !  — 
Sharp  shots  are  fretting  through  the  air, 
Red  knives  are  flashing  everywhere, 
And  here  and  there  the  yellow  flood 
Is  purpled  with  warm  smoking  blood. 
The  brown  hawk  swoops  low  to  the  ground, 
And  nimble  chipmonks,  small  and  still 
Dart  striped  lines  across  the  sill 
That  lordly  feet  shall  press  no  more. 
The  flume  lies  warping  in  the  sun, 
The  pan  sits  empty  by  the  door, 
The  pick-axe  on  its  bed-rock  floor 
Lies  rusting  in  the  silent  mine. 
There  comes  no  single  sound  nor  sign 
Of  life,  beside  yon  monks  in  brown 
That  dart  their  dim  shapes  up  and  down 
The  rocks  that  swelter  in  the  sun  ; 
But  dashing  round  yon  rocky  spur 
Where  scarce  a  hawk  would  dare  to  whirr, 
Fly  horsemen  reckless  in  their  flight. 
One  wears  a  flowing  black  capote, 
While  down  the  capo  do  flow  and  float 
Long  locks  of  hair  as  dark  as  night, 
And  hands  are  red  that  erst  were  white. 

All  up  and  down  the  land  to-day 
Black  desolation  and  despair 
It  seems  have  sat  and  settled  there, 
With  none  to  frighten  them  away. 
Like  sentries  watching  by  the  way 
Black  chimneys  topple  in  the  air, 
And  seem  to  say,  Go  back  !  beware  ! 
While  up  around  the  mountain's  rim 
Are  clouds  of  smoke,  so  still  and  grim 
They  look  as  they  are  fastened  there. 


ELIZABETH    STUART    PHELPS.  589 


ELIZABETH   STUART   PHELPS. 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps,  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Austin  Phelps,  and  granddaughter 
of  the  late  Professor  Moses  Stuart,  was  born  in  Andover,  Mass.,  August  31,  1844.  She 
(vrote  a  number  of  successful  juvenile  books  at  an  early  age.  She  became  known  as  a  writer 
of  signal  ability  by  the  publication  of  Gates  Ajar  in  1868.  This  was  followed  by  Hedged 
In,  and  by  Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts,  both  published  in  1869.  The  Silent  Partner,  from 
Which  the  selection  following  was  taken,  appeared  in  1871. 

Miss  Phelps  writes  with  the  firm  touch  of  a  practised  hand,  and  deals  with  some  of  the 
social  problems  that  are  to  require  all  the  courage,  wisdom,  patience,  and  love  of  generations 
for  their  happy  solution.  She  is  quite  fortunate  in  sketches  of  character,  and  though  her 
benevolent  purposes  are  sufficiently  obvious,  her  men  and  women  are  real  persons,  and  not 
merely  the  mouthpieces  of  warring  opinions.  The  Silent  Partner  has  many  of  the  elements 
of  a  powerful  novel  ;  natural  dialogue,  well  contrasted  scenes,  and  the  onward  movement, 
and  high  moral  qualities  which  secure  the  reader's  earnest  attention  and  sympathy. 

[From  The  Silent  Partner.] 
A   VIEW   OF   A   FACTORY   GIRL'S   LIFE. 

IF  you  are  one  of  "  the  hands  "  in  the  Hayle  and  Kelso  Mills,  you 
go  to  your  work,  as  is  well  known,  from  the  hour  of  half  past  six  to 
seven,  according  to  the  turn  of  the  season.  Time  has  been  when  you 
went  at  half  past  four.  The  Senior  forgot  this  the  other  day  in  a  little 
talk  which  he  had  with  his  silent  partner  —  very  naturally,  the  time 
having  been  so  long  past ;  but  the  time  has  been,  is  now,  indeed,  yet, 
in  places.  Mr.  Hayle  can  tell  you  of  mills  he  saw  in  New  Hamp- 
shire last  vacation,  where  they  ring  them  up,  if  you'll  believe  it,  win- 
ter and  summer,  in  and  out,  at  half  past  four  in  the  morning.  O,  no  ; 
never  let  out  before  six,  of  course.  Mr.  Hayle  disapproves  of  this. 
Mr.  Hayle  thinks  it  not  humane.  Mr.  Hayle  is  confident  that  you 
would  find  no  mission  Sunday  school  connected  with  that  concern. 

If  you  are  one  of  "  the  hands  "  in  the  Hayle  and  Kelso  Mills  — and 
again,  in  Hayle  and  Kelso  —  you  are  so  dully  used  to  this  classifica- 
tion, "  the  hands,"  that  you  were  never  known  to  cultivate  an  objection 
to  it,  are  scarcely  found  to  notice  its  use  or  disuse.  Being  surely 
neither  head  nor  heart,  what  else  remains  ?  Conscious  scarcely,  from 
bell  to  bell,  from  sleep  to  sleep,  from  day  to  dark,  of  either  head  or 
heart,  there  seems  even  a  singular  appropriateness  in  the  chance  of 
the  word  with  which  you  are  dimly  struck.  Hayle  and  Kelso  label 
you.  There  you  are.  You  are  the  fingers  of  the  world.  You  take 
your  patient  place.  The  world  may  have  need  of  you,  but  only  that 
it  may  think,  aspire,  create,  enjoy.  It  needs  your  patience  as  well 
as  your  place.  You  take  both,  and  you  are  used  to  both,  and  the 
world  is  used  to  both,  and  so,  having  put  the  label  on  for  safety's 


5QO       HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

sake,  lest  you  be  mistaken  for  a  thinking,  aspiring,  creating,  enjoy- 
ing compound,  and  so  some  one  be  poisoned,  shoves  you  into  your 
place  upon  its  shelf,  and  shuts  its  cupboard  door  upon  you. 

If  you  are  one  of  "the  hands,"  then,  in  Hayleand  Kelso,  you  have 
a  breakfast  of  bread  and  molasses  probably  ;  you  are  apt  to  eat  it 
while  you  dress ;  somebody  is  heating  the  kettle,  but  you  cannot 
wait  for  it ;  somebody  tells  you  that  you  have  forgotten  your  shawl ; 
you  throw  it  over  one  shoulder,  and  step  out,  before  it  is  fastened, 
into  the  sudden  raw  air  ;  you  left  lamp-light  in-doors  ;  you  find 
moonlight  without;  the  night  seems  to  have  overslept  itself;  you 
have  a  fancy  for  trying  to  wake  it,  would  like  to  shout  at  it  or  cry 
through  it,  but  feel  very  cold,  and  leave  that  for  the  bells  to  do  by 
and  by.  You  and  the  bells  are  the  only  waking  things  in  life.  The 
great  brain  of  the  world  is  in  serene  repose.  The  great  heart  of  the 
world  lies  warm  to  the  core  with  dreams.  The  great  hands  of  the 
world,  the  patient,  perplexed,  one  almost  fancies  at  times,  just  for 
the  fancy*  seeing  you  here  by  the  morning  moon,  the  dangerous 
hands,  alone  are  stirring  in  the  dark. 

You  hang  up  your  shawl  and  your  crinoline,  and  understand,  as 
you  go  shivering  by  gaslight  to  your  looms,  that  you  are  chilled  to 
the  heart,  and  that  you  were  careless  about  your  shawl,  but  do  not 
consider  carefulness  worth  your  while  by  nature  or  by  habit ;  a  little 
less  shawl  means  a  few  less  winters  in  which  to  require  shawling. 
You  are  a  godless  little  creature,  but  you  cherish  a  stolid  leaning,  in 
these  morning  moons,  towards  making  an  experiment  of  death  and  a 
wadded  coffin. 

By  the  time  that  gas  is  out,  you  cease,  perhaps,  —  though  you  can- 
not depend  upon  that,  —  to  shiver,  and  incline  less  and  less  to  the 
wadded  coffin,  and  more  to  chat  with  your  neighbor  in  the  alley. 
Your  neighbor  is  of  either  sex  and  any  description,  as  the  case  may 
be.  In  any  event,  warming  a  little  with  the  warming  day,  you 
incline  more  and  more  to  chat.  If  you  chance  to  be  a  cotton-weaver, 
you  are  presently  warm  enough.  It  is  quite  warm  enough  in  the 
weaving-room.  The  engines  respire  into  the  weaving-room  ;  with 
every  throb  of  their  huge  lungs  you  swallow  their  breath.  The 
weaving- room  stifles  with  steam.  The  window-sills  of  this  room  are 
guttered  to  prevent  the  condensed  steam  from  running  in  streams 
along  the  floor ;  sometimes  they  overflow,  and  water  stands  under 
the  looms  ;  the  walls  perspire  profusely  ;  on  a  damp  day,  drops  will 
fall  from  the  roof. 

The  windows  of  the  weaving-room  are  closed  ;  the  windows  must 


ELIZABETH    STUART    PHELPS.  $9! 

be  closed  ;  a  stir  in  will  break  your  threads.  There  is  no  air  to  stir. 
You  inhale  for  a  substitute  motionless,  hot  moisture.  If  you  chance 
to  be  a  cotton-weaver,  it  is  not  in  March  that  you  think  most  about 
your  coffin. 

Being  "  a  hand  "  in  Hayle  and  Kelso,  you  are  used  to  eating  cold 
luncheon  in  the  cold  at  noon,  or  you  walk,  for  the  sake  of  a  cup  of 
soup  or  coffee,  half  a  mile,  three  quarters,  a  mile  and  a  half,  and 
back.  You  are  allowed  three  quarters  of  an  hour  in  which  to  do 
this.  You  come  and  go  upon  the  jog-trot. 

You  grow  moody,  being  "  a  hand  "  at  Hayle  and  Kelso's,  with  the 
growing  day  ;  are  inclined  to  quarrel  or  to  confidence  with  your 
neighbor  in  the  alley ;  find  the  overseer  out  of  temper,  and  the 
cotton  full  of  flaws  ;  find  pains  in  your  feet,  your  back,  your  eyes, 
your  arms  ;  feel  damp  and  sticky  lint  in  your  hair,  your  neck,  your 
ears,  your  throat,  your  lungs  ;  discover  a  monotony  in  the  process  of 
breathing  hot  moisture,  lower  your  window  at  your  risk  ;  are  bidden 
by  somebody  whose  threads  you  have  broken  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room  to  put  it  up,  and  put  it  up ;  are  conscious  that  your  head 
swims,  your  eyeballs  burn,  your  breath  quickens  ;  yield  your  prefer- 
ence for  a  wadded  coffin,  and  consider  whether  the  river  would  not 
be  the  comfortable  thing ;  cough  a  little,  cough  a  great  deal,  lose 
your  balance  in  a  coughing  fit,  snap  a  thread,  and  take  to  swear- 
ing roundly. 

From  swearing  you  take  to  singing  ;  both  perhaps  are  equal  relief, 
active  and  diverting.  There  is  something  curious  about  that  sing- 
ing of  yours.  The  time,  the  place,  the  singers,  characterize  it 
sharply  —  the  waning  light,  the  rival  din,  the  girls  with  tired  faces. 
You  start  some  little  thing  with  a  refrain  and  a  ring  to  it ;  a  hymn, 
it  is  not  unlikely  ;  something  of  a  River  and  of  Waiting,  and  of  Toil 
and  Rest,  or  Sleep,  or  Crowns,  or  Harps,  or  Home,  or  Green  Fields, 
or  Flowers,  or  Sorrow,  or  Repose,  or  a  dozen  things,  but  always,  it 
will  be  noticed,  of  simple,  spotless  things,  such  as  will  surprise  the 
listener  who  caught  you  at  your  oath  of  five  minutes  past.  You  have 
other  songs,  neither  simple  nor  spotless  it  may  be  ;  but  you  never 
sing  them  at  your  work,  when  the  waning  day  is  crawling  out  from 
spots  between  your  looms,  and  the  girls  lift  up  their  tired  faces  to 
catch  and  keep  the  chorus  in  the  rival  din. 

You  like  to  watch  the  contest  between  the  chorus  and  the  din  ;  to 
see  —  you  seem  almost  to  see  —  the  struggle  of  the  melody  from 
alley  to  alley,  from  loom  to  loom,  from  darkening  wall  to  darkening 
wall,  from  lifted  face  to  lifted  face  ;  to  see  —  for  you  are  very  sure 


592  HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

you  see  —  the  machinery  fall  into  a  fit  of  rage.  That  is  a  sight! 
You  would  never  guess,  unless  you  had  watched  it  just  as  many 
times  as  you  have,  how  that  machinery  will  rage.  How  it  throws  its 
arms  about,  what  fists  it  can  clench,  how  it  shakes  at  the  elbows  and 
knees,  what  teeth  it  knows  how  to  gnash,  how  it  writhes  and  roars, 
how  it  clutches  at  the  leaky,  strangling  gas-lights,  and  how  it  bends 
its  impotent  black  head,  always,  at  last,  without  fail,  and  your  song 
sweeps  triumphant,  like  an  angel,  over  it !  With  this  you  are  very 
much  pleased,  though  only  "  a  hand,"  to  be  sure,  in  Hayle  and  Kelso. 
You  are  singing  when  the  bell  strikes,  and  singing  still  when  you 
clatter  down  the  stairs.  Something  of  the  simple  spotlessness  of 
the  little  song  is  on  your  face,  when  you  dip  into  the  wind  and  dusk. 
Perhaps  you  have  only  pinned  your  shawl,  or  pulled  your  hat  over 
your  face,  or  knocked  against  a  stranger  on  the  walk  ;  but  it  passes  ; 
it  passes  and  is  gone.  It  is  cold  and  you  tremble,  direct  from  the 
morbid  heat  in  which  you  have  stood  all  day ;  or  you  have  been  cold 
all  day,  and  it  is  colder,  and  you  shrink ;  or  you  are  from  the  weav- 
ing-room, and  the  wind  strikes  you  faint,  or  you  stop  to  cough,  and 
the  girls  go  on  without  you.  The  town  is  lighted,  and  people  are 
out  in  their  best  clothes.  You  pull  your  dingy  veil  about  your  eyes. 
You  are  weak  and  heart-sick  all  at  once.  You  don't  care  to  go 
home  to  supper.  The  pretty  song  creeps,  wounded,  back  for  the 
engines  in  the  deserted  dark  to  crunch.  You  are  a  miserable  little 
factory-girl  with  a  dirty  face. 


HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


593 


PHILIP   FRENEAU. 

[Born  in  New  York,  January  2,  1752.     Died  at  Monmouth,  N.  J.,  December  18,  1832.] 
THE   INDIAN   BURYING-GROUND. 


IN  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said, 

I  still  my  old  opinion  keep  ; 
The  posture  that  we  give  the  dead 

Points  out  the  soul's  eternal  sleep. 

Not  so  the  ancients  of  these  lands  ; 

The  Indian,  when  from  life  released, 
Again  is  seated  with  his  friends, 

And  shares  again  the  joyous  feast 

His  imaged  birds,  and  painted  bowl, 
And  venison  for  a  journey  drest, 

Bespeak  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
Activity  that  wants  no  rest. 

His  bow  for  action  ready  bent, 
And  arrows,  with  a  head  of  bone, 

Can  only  mean  that  life  is  spent, 
And  not  the  finer  essence  gone. 

Thou,  stranger,  that  shalt  come  this  way, 
No  fraud  upon  the  dead  commit  ; 

Yet  mark  the  swelling  turf,  and  say, 
They  do  not  lie,  but  here  they  sit. 


Here  still  a  lofty  rock  remains, 
On  which  the  curious  eye  may  trace 

(Now  wasted  half  by  wearing  rains) 
The  fancies  of  a  ruder  race. 

Here  still  an  aged  elm  aspires, 
Beneath  whose  far  projecting  shade 

(And  which  the  shepherd  still  admires) 
The  children  of  the  forest  played. 

There  oft  a  restless  Indian  queen 
(Pale  Marian  with  her  braided  hair) 

And  many  a  barbarous  form  is  seen 
To  chide  the  man  that  lingers  there. 

By  midnight  moons,  o'er  moistening  dews, 
In  vestments  for  the  chase  arrayed, 

The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues, 
The  hunter  and  the  deer  —  a  shade. 

And  long  shall  timorous  Fancy  see 
The  painted  chief  and  pointed  spear, 

And  reason's  self  shall  bow  the  knee 
To  shadows  and  delusions  here. 


ST.   GEORGE   TUCKER. 

[Born  at  Port  Royal,  Bermuda,  June  29,  1752.     Died 'in  Virginia,  November,  1827.] 
DAYS   OF   MY   YOUTH. 

DAYS  of  my  youth,  ye  have  glided  away ;  Eyes  of  my  youth,  you  much  evil  have  seen  ; 

Hairs  of  my  youth,  ye  are  frosted  and  gray  ;  Cheeks  of  my  youth,  bathed  in  tears  have 
Eyes  of  my  youth,  your  keen  sight  is  no  you  been  ; 

more  ;  Thoughts  of  my  youth,  ye  have  led  me  astray ; 

Cheeks  of  my  youth,  ye  are   furrowed  all  Strength  of  my  youth,  why  lament  your  decay? 

o'er; 

Strength  of  my  youth,  all  your  vigor  is  gone  ;  Days  of  my  age,  ye  will  shortly  be  past ; 

Thoughts  of  my  youth,  your  gay  visions  are  Pains  of  my  age,  yet  a  while  ye  can  last ; 

flown.  Joys  of  my  age,  in  true  wisdom  delight ; 

Eyes  of  my  age,  be  religion  your  light ; 

Days  of  my  youth,  I  wish  not  your  recall ;  Thoughts  of  my  age,  dread  ye  not  the  cold 
Hairs  of  my  youth,  I'm  content  ye  should  sod  ; 

fell ;  Hopes  of  my  age,  be  ye  fixed  on  your  God. 

38 


594  HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

FRANCIS   SCOTT   KEY. 

[Born  in  Frederick  County,  Md.,  August  i.  1779.      Died  at  Baltimore,  January  u,  1843.] 
THE   STAR-SPANGLED   BANNER. 

O>  SAY,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  And  where  are  the  foes  who  so  vauntingly 

light,  swore 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  That  the  havoc  of  war,  and  the  battle's  con- 
last  gleaming?  fusion, 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no 

the  perilous  fight,  more  ? 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were  so  gal-  Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  foot- 

lantly  streaming  :  steps'  pollution  ; 

And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  and  bombs  burst-  No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

ing  in  air,  From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the 

Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  grave ; 

was  still  there :  And  the  Star- Spangled  Banner  in  triumph 

O,  say,  does  that  Star-Spangled  Banner  yet  doth  wave 

wave  O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  I 

O,  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall 

On  that  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  stand 

of  the  deep,  Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's 

Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  desolation ! 

silence  reposes,  Blessed  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  tower-  heaven-rescued  land 

ing  steep.  Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  pre- 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  dis-  served  us  a  nation  ! 

closes  ?  Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  just, 

first  beam,  And  this  be  our  motto:  "In  God  is  our 

In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  in  the  trust." 

stream  ;  And  the  Star- Spangled  Banner  in  triumph 

'Tis  the  Star-Spangled  Banner ;  O,  long  may  shall  wave 

it  wave  O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ! 

brave ! 


SAMUEL  WOODWORTH. 

[Born  in  Scituate,  Mass.,  January  13,  1785.     Died  in  the  city  of  New  York,  December  9, 

1842.] 
THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy 

childhood,  knew ; 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  The  wide  spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  which 

view  !  stood  by  it, 

The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep  tangled  The  bridge  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract 

wild  wood,  fell ; 


HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


595 


The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it,  The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  The  moss-covered  bucket  arose  from  the 

the  well.'  well. 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to 

the  well.  receive  it, 

As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure  ;  lips  ! 

For  often,  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to 

field,  leave  it, 

I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure,  Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  Nature  can  sips. 

yield.  And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situa- 

How  ardent  I  seized  it  with  hands  that  were  tion, 

glowing,  The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

fell  !  And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in 

Then  soon  with  the  emblem  of  truth  over-  the  well ; 

flowing,  The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hangs  in 

the  well ;  the  well 


ANDREWS   NORTON. 

[Born  in  Hingham,  Mass.,  December  31,  1786.    Died  at  Newport,  R.  I.,  September  18, 

1853-] 

SCENE   AFTER  A   SUMMER   SHOWER. 


THE  rain  is  o'er.     How  dense  and  bright 
Yon  pearly  clouds  reposing  lie  ! 

Cloud  above  cloud,  a  glorious  sight, 
Contrasting  with  the  dark  blue  sky  I 

In  grateful  silence  earth  receives 

The  general  blessing  ;  fresh  and  fair, 
Each  flower  expands  its  little  leaves, 
•  As  glad  the  common  joy  to  share. 

The  softened  sunbeams  pour  around 
A  fairy  light,  uncertain,  pale  ; 

The  wind  flows  cool ;  the  scented  ground 
Is  breathing  odors  on  the  gale. 

'Mid  yon  rich  clouds'  voluptuous  pile, 
Methinks  some  spirit  of  the  air 

Might  rest,  to  gaze  below  a  while, 
Then  turn  to  bathe  and  revel  there. 


The  sun  breaks  forth  ;  from  off  the  scene 
Its  floating  veil  of  mist  is  flung  ; 

And  all  the  wilderness  of  green 

With  trembling  drops  of  light  is  hung. 

Now  gaze  on  Nature  —  yet  the  same  — 
Glowing  with  life,  by  breezes  fanned, 

Luxuriant,  lovely,  as  she  came, 

Fresh  in  her  youth,  from  God's  own  hand. 

Hear  the  rich  music  of  that  voice, 
Which  sounds  from  all  below,  above ; 

She  calls  her  children  to  rejoice, 
And  round  them  throws  her  arms  of  love. 

Drink  in  her  influence  ;  low-born  care, 
And  all  the  train  of  mean  desire. 

Refuse  to  breathe  this  holy  air, 
And  'mid  this  living  light  expire. 


596 


HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


RICHARD    HENRY  WILDE. 

[Born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  September  24,  1789.   Died  at  New  Orleans,  September  10, 1847.! 


STANZAS. 


MY  life  is  like  the  summer  rose, 

Tlyit  opens  to  the  morning  sky. 
But  ere  (he  shades  of  evening  close, 
Is  scattered  on  the  ground  to  die  ! 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see  — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 
That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray 

Its  hold  is  frail  —  its  date  is  brief, 
Restless —  and  soon  to  pass  away  ! 


Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree, 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand ; 

Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 
All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand  ; 

Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 

All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea ; 

But  none,  alas  !  shall  mourn  for  me  ! 


ELIZA   TOWNSEND. 

[Born  in  Boston,  in  1789.     Died  January  12,  1854.] 


AN  INVOCATION  TO  PEACE. 
[Concluding  stanzas  of  a  Poem  entitled  The  Rainbow.] 


BUT  thou,  around  whose  holy  head 
The  balmy  olive  loves  to  spread, 

Return,  O  nymph  benign  ! 
With  buds  that  paradise  bestowed, 
Whence  "healing  for  the  nations"  flowed, 

Our  bleeding  temples  twine. 

For  thee  our  fathers  ploughed  the  strand, 
For  thee  they  left  that  goodly  land, 

The  turf  their  childhood  trod  ; 
The  hearths  on  which  their  infants  played, 
The  tombs  in  which  their  sires  were  laid, 

The  altars  of  their  God. 

Then,  by  their  consecrated  dust, 

Their  spirits,  spirits  of  the  just, 

Now  near  their  Maker's  face, 


By  their  privations  and  their  cares, 
Their  pilgrim  toils,  their  patriot  prayers, 
Desert  thou  not  their  race. 

Descend  to  mortal  ken  confest, 
Known  by  thy  white  and  stainless  vest, 
And  let  us  on  the  mountain  crest 

That  snowy  mantle  see  ; 
O,  let  not  here  thy  mission  close, 
Leave  not  the  erring  sons  of  those 

Who  left  a  world  for  thee. 

Celestial  visitant  !  again 
Resume  thy  gentle  golden  reign, 

Our  honored  guest  once  more  ; 
Cheer  with  thy  smiles  our  saddened  plain, 
And  let  thy  rainbow  o'er  the  main 

Tell  that  the  storms  are  o'er. 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


597 


JOHN   HOWARD   PAYNE. 

[Bom  in  the  city  of  New  York,  June  9,  1792.    Died  at  Tunis,  Africa,  April  10,  1852.] 

• 

SWEET  HOME. 

'MiD  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  An  exile  from  home,  splendor   dazzles  in 

roam,  vain ! 

Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  O,    give    me    my    lowly    thatched'  cottage 

home !  again  ! 

A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  The  birds  singing  gayly  that  came  at  my 

here,  .  call;- 

Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  O,  give  me  sweet  peace  of  mind,  dearer  than 

with  elsewhere.  all ! 

Home,  home,  sweet  home  I  Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 

There's  no  place  like  home !  There's  no  place  like  home  ! 


JOHN   NEAL. 

[Born  in  Portland,  Me.,  August  25,  1793.] 


BIRTH   OF  A  POET. 


ON  a  blue  summer  night, 

While  the  stars  were  asleep, 

Like  gems  of  the  deep, 
In  their  own  drowsy  light ; 

While  the  new-mown  hay 

On  the  green  earth  lay. 
And  all  that  came  near  it  went  scented  away. 
From  a  lone  woody  place 
There  looked  out  a  face, 
With  large  blue  eyes. 
Like  the  wet,  warm  skies, 

Brimful  of  water  and  light ; 
A  profusion  of  hair 
Flashing  out  on  the  air, 

And  a  forehead  alarmingly  bright : 
'Twas  the  head  of  a  poet  !     He  grew 

As  the  sweet  strange  flowers  of  the  wilder- 
ness blow ; 


Till  every  thought  wore  a  changeable  stain, 
Like  flower  leaves  wet  with  the  sunset  rain. 

A  proud  and  passionate  boy  was  he, 
Like  all  the  children  of  Poesy  ; 
With  a  haughty  look  and  a  haughty  tread, 
And  something  awful  about  his  head  ; 

With  wonderful  eyes 

Full  of  woe  and  surprise, 
Like  the  eyes  of  them  that  can  see  the  dead. 

Looking  about, 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  stood 
On  the  shore  of  the  mighty  wood, 

Then  ventured  out, 

With  a  bounding  step  and  a  joyful  shout,  - 
The  brave  sky  bending  o'er  him  ! 
The  broad  sea  all  before  him  I 


598 


HAND-BOOK   OF   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


EDWARD   EVERETT. 

[For  biographical  notice,  see  p.  147] 

f 

DIRGE  OF  ALARIC  THE  VISIGOTH, 

Who  stormed  and  spoilt  the  city  of  Rome,  and  was  afterwards  buried  in  the  channel  of 
the  river  Busentius,  th*  water  of  which  had  been  diverted  from  its  course  that  the  body 
might  be  interred. 


WHEN  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train 
Shall  waste  their  sorrows  at  my  bier, 

Nor  worthless  pomp  of  homage  vaia 
Stain  it  with  hyiiocritic  tear  ; 

For  I  will  die  as  I  did  live, 

Nor  take  the  boon  I  cannot  give. 

Ye  shall  not  raise  a  marble  bust 
Upon  the  spot  where  I  repose  ; 

Ye  shall  not  fawn  before  my  dust, 
In  hollow  circumstance  of  woes  ; 

Nor  sculptured  clay,  with  lying  breath, 

Insult  the  clay  that  moulds  beneath. 

Ye  shall  not  pile,  with  servile  toil, 
Your  monuments  upon  my  breast, 

Nor  yet  within  the  common  soil 
Lay  down  the  wreck  of  Power  to  rest ; 

Where  man  can  boast  that  lie  has  trod 

On  him  that  was  "  the  scourge  of  God." 

But  ye  the  mountain  stream  shall  turn, 

And  lay  its  secret  channel  bare, 
And  hollow,  for  your  sovereign's  urn, 

A  resting-place  forever  there  : 
Then  bid  its  everlasting  sppings 
Flow  back  upon  the  king  of  kings ; 
And  never  be  the  secret  said, 
Until  the  deep  give  up  his  dead. 

My  gold  and  silver  ye  shall  fling 
Back  to  the  clods  that  gave  them  birth ; 

The  captured  crown  of  many  a  king, 
The  ransom  of  a  conquered  earth  : 

For  e'en  though  dead  will  I  control 

The  trophies  of  the  capitol. 

But  when  beneath  the  mountain  tide 
Ye've  laid  your  monarch  down  to  rot, 

Ye  shall  not  rear  upon  its  side 
Pillar  or  mound  to  mark  the  spot ; 

For  long  enough  the  world  has  shook 

Beneath  the  terrors  of  my  look ; 


And  now  that  I  have  run  my  race, 

The  astonished  realms  shall  rest  a  space. 

'  My  course  was  like  a  river  deep, 

And  from  the  northern  hills  I  burst, 
Across  the  world  in  wrath  to  sweep, 

And  where  I  went  the  spot  was  cursed, 
Nor  blade  of  grass  again  was  seen 
Where  Alaric  and  his  hosts  had  been. 

See  how  their  haughty  barriers  fail 
Beneath  the  terror  of  the  Goth, 

Their  iron-breasted  legions  quail 
Before  my  ruthless  sabaoth, 

And  low  the  queen  of  empires  kneels 

And  grovels  at  my  chariot-wheels. 

Not  for  myself  did  I  ascend 
In  judgment  my  triumphal  car  ; 

'Twas  God  alone  on  high  did  send 
The  avenging  Scythian  to  the  war, 

To  shake  abroad,  with  iron  hand, 

The  appointed  scourge  of  his  command. 

With  iron  hand  that  scourge  I  reared 
O'er  guilty  king  and  guilty  realm  ; 
Destruction  was  the  sliip  I  steered, 

And  \engeance  sat  uj:on  the  helm, 
When,  launched  in  fury  on  the  flood, 
I  ploughed  my  way  through  seas  of  blood, 
And  in  the  stream  their  hearts  had  spilt 
Washed  out  the  long  arrears  of  guilt. 

Across  the  everlasting  Alp 

I  poured  the  torrent  of  my  powers, 

And  feeble  Caesars  shrieked  for  help 

In  vain  within  their  seven-hilled  towers ; 

I  quenched  in  blood  the  brightest  gem 

That  glittered  in  their  diadem, 

And  struck  a  darker,  deeper  dye 

In  the  purple  of  their  majesty, 

And  bade  my  northern  banners  shine 

Upon  the  conquered  Palatine. 


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599 


My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done  : 
I  go  to  him  from  whom  I  came  ; 

But  never  yet  shall  set  the  sun 
Of  glory  that  adorns  my  name  ; 

And  Roman  hearts  shall  long  be  sick, 

When  men  shall  think  of  Alaric. 


My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done, 
But  darker  ministers  of  fate 

Impatient,  round  the  eternal  throne, 
And  in  the  caves  of  vengeance  wait ; 

And  soon  mankind  shall  blench  away 

Before  the  name  of  Attila. 


GRENVILLE   MELLEN. 

[Bora  in  Biddeford,  Me.,  June  19,  1799-    Died  in  New  York,  September  5,  1841.] 


THE  BUGLE. 

"  Biit  still  the  dingle's  hollow  throat 
Prolonged  the  swelling  bugle's  note  ; 
The  owlets  started  from  their  dream, 
The  eagles  answered  with  their  scream. 
Round  and  around  the  sounds  were  cast, 
Till  echo  turned  an  answering  blast."    Lady  of  the  Lake. 


O,  WILD  enchanting  horn  ! 
Whose  music  up  the  deep  and  dewy  air 
Swells  to  the  clouds,  and  calls  an  echo  there, 

Till  a  new  melody  is  bora. 

Wake,  wake  again  ;  the  night 
Is  bending  from  her  throne  of  Beauty  down, 
With  still  stars  beaming  on  her  azure  crown, 

Intense  and  eloquently  bright ! 

Night,  at  its  pulseless  noon  ! 
When  the  far  voice  of  waters  mourns  in  song, 
And  some  tired  watch-dog,  lazily  and  long, 

Barks  at  the  melancholy  moon  ! 

Hark  !  how  it  sweeps  away, 
Soaring  and  dying  on  the  silent  sky, 
As  if  some   sprite  of  sound  went  wander- 
ing by, 

With  lone  halloo  and  roundelay. 


Swell,  swell  in  glory  out  ! 
Thy  tones  come  pouring  on  my  leaping  heart, 
And  my  stirred  spirit  hears  thee  with  a  start 

As  boyhood's  old,  remembered  shout. 

O,  have  ye  heard  that  peal, 
From  sleeping  city's    moon-bathed  battle- 
ments, 
Or  from  the  guarded  field  and  warrior  tents. 

Like  some  near  breath  around  ye  steal ! 

Or  have  ye,  in  the  roar 
Of  sea,  or  storm,  or  battle,  heard  it  rise, 
Shriller  than  eagle's  clamor,  to  the  skies, 

Where  wings  and  tempests  never  soar. 

Go,  go  ;  no  other  sound, 
No  music,  that  of  air  or  earth  is  born, 
Can  match  the  mighty  music  of  that  horn, 

On  midnight's  fathomless  profound  1 


6oo 


HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  DOANE. 

[Born  at  Trenton,  N.  J.,  May  27,  1799.     Died  at  Burlington,  N.  J.,  April  27,  1859.] 


"  Let  my  prayer 

SOFTLY  now  the  light  of  day 
Fades  upon  my  sight  away  ; 
Free  from  care,  from  labor  free, 
Lord,  I  would  commune  with  thee  ! 
Thou,  whose  all-pervading  eye 

Nought  escapes,  without,  within, 
Pardon  each  infirmity, 

Open  fault,  and  secret  sin. 


EVENING. 

be  —  as  the  evening  sacrifice." 

Soon  for  me  the  light  of  day 
Shall  forever  pass  away  ; 
Then,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
Take  me,  Lord,  to  dwell  with  thee. 
Thou  who,  sinless,  yet  hast  known 

All  of  man's  infirmity  ; 
Then,  from  thy  eternal  throne, 

Jesus^  look  with  pitying  eye. 


ALBERT  GORTON  GREENE. 

[Born  in  Providence,  R.  I.,  February  10,  1802.    Died  at  Cleveland,  Ohio,  January  3,  1868.] 
TO   THE   WEATHERCOCK   ON   OUR   STEEPLE. 


THE  dawn  has  broke,  the  morn  is  up, 

Another  day  begun ; 
And  there  thy  poised  and  gilded  spear 

Is  flashing  in  the  sun, 
Upon  that  steep  and  lofty  tower 

Where  thou  thy  watch  hast  kept, 
A  true  and  faithful  sentinel, 

While  all  around  thee  slept. 

For  years  upon  thee  there  has  poured 

The  summer's  noonday  heat, 
And  through  the  long,  dark,  starless  night, 

The  winter  storms  have  beat ; 
And  yet  thy  duty  has  been  done, 

By  day  and  night  the  same  ; 
Still  thou  hast  met  and  faced  the  storm 

Whichever  way  it  came. 

How  oft  I've  seen,  at  early  dawn, 

Or  twilight's  quiet  hour, 
The  swallows,  in  their  joyous  glee, 

Come  darting  round  thy  tower, 
As  if,  with  thee,  to  hail  the  sun, 

And  catch  its  earliest  light, 
And  offer  ye  the  morn's  salute, 

Or  bid  ye  both  — good  night ! 


And  when  around  thee  or  above 

No  breath  of  air  has  stirred, 
Thou  seem'st  to  watch  the  circling  flight 

Of  each  free,  happy  bird, 
Till,  after  twittering  round  thy  head 

In  many  a  mazy  track, 
The  whole  delighted  company 

Have  settled  on  thy  back. 

Then,  if  perchance,  amidst  their  mirth, 

A  gentle  breeze  has  sprung, 
And  prompt  to  mark  its  first  approach, 

Thy  eager  form  hath  swung, 
I've  thought  I  almost  heard  thee  say, 

As  far  aloft  they  flew, 
"  Now  all  away  !  —  here  ends  our  play, 

For  I  have  work  to  do  1 " 

Men  slander  thee,  my  honest  friend, 

And  call  thee,  in  their  pride, 
An  emblem  of  their  fickleness, 

Thou  ever-faithful  guide. 
Each  weak,  unstable  human  mind 

A  "  weathercock  "  they  call ; 
And  thus,  unthinkingly,  mankind 

Abuse  thee,  one  and  all. 


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They  have  no  right  to  make  thy  name 

A  by-word  for  their  deeds :  — 
They  change  their  friends,  their  principles, 

Their  fashions,  and  their  creeds  ; 
Whilst  thou  hast  ne'er  been  known 

Thus  causelessly  to  range, 
But  when  thou  changes!  sides  canst  give 

Good  reason  for  the  change. 

Thou,  like  some  lofty  soul,  whose  course 

The  thoughtless  oft  condemn, 
Art  touched  by  many  airs  from  heaven 

Which  never  breathe  on  them,  — 


And  moved  by  many  impulses 

Which  they  do  never  know, 
Who,  round  their  earth-bound  circles,  plod 

The  dusty  paths  below. 

Bright  symbol  of  fidelity, 

Still  may  I  think  of  thee  ; 
And  may  the  lesson  thou  dost  teach 

Be  never  lost  on  me  ;  — 
But  still,  in  sunshine  or  in  storm, 

Whatever  task  is  mine, 
May  I  be  faithful  to  my  trust 

As  thou  hast  been  to  thine. 


EDWARD  COATES  PINKNEY. 

[Born  in  London,  October,  1802.     Died  in  Baltimore,  April  u,  1828.] 


A   HEALTH. 

I  FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness  And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft,  so  fill  her, 

alone,  she  appears 

A  woman,   of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming  The  image  of  themselves  by  turns,  —  the  idol 

paragon  ;  of  past  years. 

To  whom  the  better  elements  and  kindly  stars 

have  given  Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace  a 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air,  'tis  less  of  picture  on  the  brain, 

earth  than  heaven.  And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts  a  sound 

must  long  remain ; 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own,  like  those  of  But  memory  such  as  mine  of  her  so  very 

morning  birds,  much  endears, 

And  something  more  than  melody  dwells  ever  When  death  is  ni^h  my  latest  sigh  will  not 

in  her  words  ;  be  life's  but  hers. 

The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they,  and  from 

her  lips  each  flows  I  filled  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee  forth  issue  alone, 

from  the  rose.  A  woman,   of  her  gentle   sex  the  seeming 

paragon  — 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her,  the  meas-  Her  health  !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

ures  of  her  hours  ;  some  more  of  such  a  frame, 

Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy,  the  freshness  That  life  might  be  all  poetry,  and  weariness  a 

of  young  flowers  ;  name. 


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GEORGE  P.  MORRIS. 

[Born  in  Philadelphia,  October  10,  1802.     Died  in  New  York,  July  6,  1864.] 
WOODMAN,    SPARE   THAT   TREE. 


WOODMAN,  spare  that  tree  ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough  ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now. 
'Twas  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot : 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand ; 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not ! 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke  ! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties  ; 
O,  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies  I 


When  but  an  idle  boy 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here  too  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  mo  h;rc  ; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand  — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand  ! 

My  heartstrings  round  thee  cling, 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend  ! 
Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree  !  the  storm  sti'.l  brave  ! 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot : 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 


REV.  JOSEPH   H.   CLINCH. 

[Born  in  Trinity,  Newfoundland,  January  30,  1806.     A  resident  of  Boston.] 


HYMN 
FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  SHURTLEFF  SCHOOL  HOUSE  IN  SOUTH  BOSTON. 


WHERE  Ignorance  holds  its  iron  reign, 
Where  mists  of  deadly  Error  rise, 

There  Virtue  lifts  her  voice  in  vain, 

There  Freedom  droops  and  Honor  dies. 

Until  they  pluck  fnir  Wisdom's  fruit, 
And  drink  of  Learning's  sacred  wave, 

Degraded  man  is  but  a  brute, 
Degraded  woman  but  a  slave. 

The  land  is  cursed  whose  children  feel 
No  warmth  by  Learning's  hand  impressed ; 


'Tis  Ignorance  shapes  and  drives  the  steel 
That  pierces  Freedom's  bleeding  breast 

For  this  we  build  :  —  for  Freedom's  sake, 
These  fanes  we  raise  and  dedicate  ; 

For  this  we  lavish  wenlih,  to  make 
Our  schools  the  bulwarks  of  the  state. 

Great  God  !  with  favoring  eye  look  down  I 
Prosper  the  labor  of  our  hand  ! 

Accept  our  work,  —  our  efforts  crown 
To  elevate  and  bless  the  land ! 


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EPES   SARGENT. 

[Born  at  Gloucester,  Mass.,  September  27,  1812.     A  resident  of  Boston.] 
A  LIFE  ON  THE  OCEAN  WAVE. 


A  LIFE  on  the  ocean  wave, 

A  home  on  the  rolling  deep, 
Where  the  scattered  waters  rave, 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep  ! 
Like  an  eagle  caged,  I  pine 

On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore  : 
O,  give  me  the  flashing  brine, 

The  spray,  and  the  tempest's  roar  ! 

Once  more  ori  deck  I  stand, 
Of  my  own  swift -gliding  craft  : 

Set  sail  !  farewell  to  the  land  ! 
The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 


We  shoot  through  the  sparkling  foam 
Like  an  ocean-bird,  set  free  :  — 

Like  the  ocean-bird,  our  home 
We'll  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view, 

The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown  ; 
But  with  a  stout  vessel  and  crew, 

We'll  say,  Let  the  storm  come  down  ! 
And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be, 

While  the  winds  and  the  waters  rave, 
A  home  on  the  rolling  sea  ! 

A  life  011  the  ocean  wave  I 


SUMMER   IN   THE   HEART. 


THE  cold  blast  at  the  casement  beats ; 

The  window-panes  are  white  ; 
The  snow  whirls  through  the  empty  streets : 

It  is  a  dreary  night ! 
Sit  down,  old  friend  ;  the  wine-cups  wait ; 

Fill,  to  o'erflowing  fill  ! 
Though  Winter  howleth  at  the  gate» 

In  our  hearts  'tis  summer  still ! 

For  we  full  many  summer  joys 

And  greenwood  sports  have  shared, 
When,  free  and  ever-roving  boys, 

The  rocks,  the  streams,  we  dared ; 
And,  as  I  look  upon  thy  face, 

Back,  back  o'er  years  of  ill, 
My  heart  flies  to  that  happy  place, 

Where  it  is  summer  still. 


Yes,  though  like  sere  leaves  on  the  ground, 

Our  early  hopes  are  strown, 
And  cherished  flowers  lie  dead  around, 

And  singing  birds  are  flown, 
The  verdure  is  not  faded  quite, 

Not  mute  all  tones  that  thrill ; 
And  seeing,  hearing  thee  to-night, 

In  my  heart  'tis  summer  still. 

Fill  up  !    The  olden  times  come  back 

With  light  and  life  once  more  ; 
We  scan  the  Future's  sunny  track 

From  Youth's  enchanted  shore  ;  — 
The  lost  return  :  through  fields  of  bloom 

We  wander  at  our  will ; 
Gone  is  the  Winter's  angry  gloom  — 

In  our  hearts  'tis  summer  still 


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CHARLES   FENNO   HOFFMAN. 

[Born  in  New  York  in  1806.] 


SONG. 


SPARKLING  and  bright  in  liquid  light 
Does  the  wine  our  goblets  gleam  in, 
With  hue  as  red  as  the  rosy  bed 

Which  a  bee  would  choose  to  dream  in. 
Then  fill  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's 

brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

O,  if  Mirth  might  arrest  the  flight 
Of  Time  through  Life's  dominions, 

We  here  a  while  would  now  beguile 
The  graybeard  of  his  pinions, 
To  drink  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 


To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's 

brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

But  since  delight  can't  tempt  the  wight, 

Nor  fond  regret  delay  him, 
Nor  Love  himself  can  hold  the  elf, 
Nor  sober  Friendship  stay  him, 
We'll    drink    to-night,    with   hearts   as 

light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's 

brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 


JONES  VERY. 

[Born  in  Salem,  Mass.,  August  28,  1813.] 


TO   THE   PAINTED   COLUMBINE. 


BRIGHT  image  of  the  early  years 
When  glowed  my  cheek  as  red  as  thou, 

And  life's  dark  throng  of  cares  and  fears 
Were  swift-winged  shadows  o'er  my  sunny 
brow  ! 

Thou  blushest  from  the  painter's  page, 
Robed  in  the  mimic  tints  of  art ; 

But  Nature's  hand  in  youth's  green  age 
With  fairer  hues  first  traced  thee  on  my 
heart. 

The  morning's  blush,  she  made  it  thine  ; 

The  morn's  sweet  breath,  she  gave  it  thee ; 
And  in  thy  look,  my  Columbine  ! 

Each  fond-remembered  spot  she  bade  me 


I  see  the  hill's  far-gazing  head, 
Where  gay  thou  noddest  on  the  gale  ; 


I  hear  light-bounding  footsteps  tread 
The  grassy  path  that  winds  along  the  vale. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  woodland  song 
Break  from  each  bush  and  well-known  tree, 

And  on  light  pinions  borne  along, 
Comes  back  the  laugh  from  childhood's 
heart  of  glee. 

O'er  the  dark  rock  the  dashing  brook, 
With  looks  of  anger,  leaps  again, 

And,  hastening  to  each  flowery  nook, 

Its  distant  voice  is  heard  far  down    the 
glen. 

Fair  child  of  art !  thy  charms  decay, 

Touched  by  the  withered  hand  of  Time  ; 
And  hushed  the  music  of  that  day, 
•  When  my  voice  mingled  with  the  stream- 
let's chime ; 


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But  on  my  heart  thy  cheek  of  bloom 
Shall  live  when  Nature's  smile  has  fled  ; 

And,  rich  with  memory's  sweet  perfume, 
Shall  o'er  her  grave  thy  tribute  incense 
shed. 


There  shalt  thou  live  and  wake  the  glee 
That  echoed  on  thy  native  hill ; 

And  when,  loved  flower  !  I  think  of  thee, 
My  infant  feet  will  seem  to  seek  thee  still. 


THE   WIND-FLOWER. 


THOU  lookest  up  with  meek,  confiding  eye 

Upon  the  clouded  smile  of  April's  face, 

Unharmed  though  Winter  stands  uncertain 

by, 

Eying  with  jealous  glance  each  opening 
grace. 

Thou  trustest  wisely  !  in  thy  faith  arrayed 
More   glorious   thou  than  Israel's  wisest 
king ; 


As  thine  who  hear'st  the  timid  voice  of 
Spring. 

While  other  flowers  still  hide  them  from  her 

call 

Along  the  river's  brink  and  meadow  bare, 
Thee  will  I  seek  beside  the  stony  wall, 
And  in  thy  trust  with  child-like  heart  would 

share, 
O'erjoyed  that  in  thy  early  leaves  I  find 


Such  faith  was  His  whom  men  to  death  be-     A  lesson  taught  by  Him  who  loved  all  human 


trayed 


kind. 


CHARLES   GAMAGE   EASTMAN. 

[Born  in  Fryeburg,  Me.,  June  i,  1816.     Resides  at  Montpelier,  Vt] 
A  PICTURE. 


THE  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair 

Smoking  his  pipe  of  clay, 
While  his  hale  old  wife  with  busy  care 

Was  clearing  the  dinner  away  ; 
A  sweet  little  girl  with  fine  blue  eyes 
On  her  grandfather's  knee  was  catching  flies. 

The  old  man  laid  his  hand  on  her  head, 
With  a  tear  on  his  wrinkled  face  ; 

He  thought  how  often  her  mother,  dead, 
Had  sat  in  the  self-same  place ; 

As  the  tear  stole  down  from  his  half-shut  eye, 

"Don't  smoke!"  said  the  child;  "how  it 
makes  you  cry  I '' 


The  house-dog  lay  stretched  out  on  the  floor 
Where  the  shade  after  noon  used  to  steal ; 

The  busy  old  wife  by  the  open  door 
Was  turning  the  spinning  wheel, 

And  the  old  brass  clock  on  the  mantel-tree 

Had  plodded  along  to  almost  three ;  — 

Still  the  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair, 
While,  close  to  his  heaving  breast, 

The  moistened  brow  and  the  cheek  so  fair 
Of  his  sweet  grandchild  were  pressed  ;  — 

His  head,  bent  down,  on  her  soft  hair  lay  — 

Fast  asleep  were  they  both  that  summer 
day! 


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JAMES   THOMAS   FIELDS. 

[Born  1817.     For  biographical  notice,  see  p.  417.] 


WORDSWORTH. 


THE  grass  hung  wet  on  Rydal  banks. 
The  golden  day  with  pearls  adorning, 

When  side  by  side  with  him  we  walked 
To  meet  midway  the  summer  morning. 

The  west  wind  took  a  softer  breath, 

The  sun  himself  seemed  brighter  shining, 

As  through  the  porch  the  minstrel  stepped  — 
His  eye  sweet  Nature's  look  enshrining. 

He  passed  along  the  dewy  sward, 
The  blue-bird  sang  aloft  "  good  morrow  !  " 

He  plucked  a  bud,  the  flower  awoke, 
And  smiled  without  one  pang  of  sorrow. 

He  spoke  of  all  that  graced  the  scene, 
In  tones  that  fell  like  music  round  us  ; 


We  felt  the  charm  descend,  nor  strove 
To  break  the  rapturous  spell  that  bound  us. 

We  listened  with  mysterious  awe, 

Strange  feelings  mingling  with  our  pleas- 
ure ; 
We  heard  that  day  prophetic  words. 

High    thoughts    the    heart    must  always 
treasure. 

Great  Nature's  Priest  !  thy  calm  career 
With    that    sweet    morn    on    earth    has 

ended  — 

But  who  shall  say  thy  mission  died 
When,  winged  for  Heaven,  thy  soul  as- 
cended ! 


REV.   SAMUEL  LONGFELLOW. 

[Born  in  Portland,  Me.,  June  18,  1819.] 
I.    NOVEMBER. 


THE  dead  leaves  their  rich  mosaics, 
Of  olive,  and  gold,  and  brown, 

Had  lain  on  the  rain-wet  pavements, 
Through  all  the  embowered  town. 

They  were  washed  by  the  autumn  tempest, 
They  %vere  trod  by  hurrying  feet, 

And  the  winds  came  out  with  their  besoms 
And  swept  them  into  the  street, 


To  be  crushed  and  lost  forever 

'Neath  the  wheels,  in  the  black  mire  lost,  • 
The  Summer's  precious  darlings, 

She  nurtured  at  such  cost ! 

O  words  that  have  fallen  from  me  I 

O  golden  thoughts  and  true  I 
Must  I  see  in  the  leaves  a  symbol 

Of  the  fate  which  awaiteth  you? 


II.     APRIL. 

AGAIN  has  come  the  Spring-time,  O  gardener  !  tell  me  the  secret 

With  the  crocus's  -olden  bloom,  Of  thy  flowers  so  rare  and  sweet ! 

With  the  smell  of  the  fresh-turned   earth-  —  "  I  have  only  enriched  my  garden 

mould,  With  the  black  mire  from  the  street  !  " 

And  the  violet's  perfume.  A  tlantic  Monthly,  July,  1858. 


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GENERAL   HENRY   R.  JACKSON. 

[Born  in  Savannah,  Ga.,  1819.     Yale,  1839.     Author  of  Tullalah,  &c.] 
MY   WIFE   AND   CHILD. 

[These  lines  were  written  while  the  author  was  in  command  of  the  first  Georgia  regiment, 
then  in  camp  on  the  Rio  Grande,  below  Matamoras,  and  a  part  of  General  Taylor's  army 
of  Mexican  invasion.  The  general  wrote  them  in  pencil  on  his  knee  in  his  tent.] 


THE  tattoo  beats,  the  lights  are  gone, 
The  camp  around  in  slumber  lies  ; 

The  night  in  solemn  pace  moves  on, 
Tl\e  shadows  thicken  o'er  the  skies  ; 

But  sleep  my  weary  eyes  hath  flown, 
And  sad,  uneasy  thoughts  arise. 

I  think  of  thee,  my  dearest  one, 
Whose  love  my  early  life  hath  blessed  ; 

Of  thee  and  him  —  our  baby  son  — 
Who  slumbers  on  thy  gentle  breast. 

God  of  the  tender,  frail,  and  lone, 
O,  guard  the  tender  sleeper's  rest ! 

And  hover  gently,  hover  near 

To  her,  whose  watchful  eye  is  wet  — 

To  mother,  wife  —  the  doubly  dear, 
In  whose  young  heart  have  freshly  met 

Two  streams  of  love  so  deep  and  clear  — 
And  cheer  her  drooping  spirits  yet. 

Now,  while  she  kneels  before  thy  throne, 

O,  teach  her,  Ruler  of  the  skies, 
That  while  at  thy  behest  alone 


Earth's  mightiest  powers  fall  and  rise, 
No  tear  is  wept  to  thee  unknown, 
No  hair  is  lost,  no  sparrow  dies  ;  — 

That  thou  canst  stay  the  ruthless  hands 
Of  dark  disease,  and  soothe  its  pain  ; 

That  only  by  thy  stern  commands 
The  battle's  lost,  the  soldier's  slain  ; 

That  from  the  distant  sea  or  land 

Thou  bring'st  the  wanderer  home  again. 

And  when  upon  her  pillow  lone 

Her  tear-wet  cheek  is  sadly  pressed, 

May  happier  visions  beam  upon 
The  brightening  current  of  Irer  breast ; 

No  frowning  look  or  angry  tone 
Disturb  the  Sabbath  of  her  rest. 

Whatever  fate  those  forms  may  show, 
Loved  with  a  passion  almost  wild  — 

By  day,  by  nLht,  in  joy  or  woe  — 

By  fears  oppressed,  or  hopes  beguiled, 

From  every  danger,  every  foa, 
O  God,  protect  my  wife  and  child  ! 


MARIA  (WHITE)   LOWELL. 

[Born  in  Watertown,  1821.     Died  in  Cambridge,  1853.] 

THE   ALPINE   SHEEP. 
ADDRESSED  TO  A  FRIEND  AFTER  THE  Loss  OF  A  CHILD. 


WHEN  on  my  ear  your  loss  was  knelled, 

And  tender  sympathy  upburst, 
A  little  spring  from  memory  welled, 

Which  once  had  quenched  my  bitter  thirst. 

And  I  was  fain  to  bear  to  you 

A  portion  of  its  mild  relief, 
That  it  might  be  as  healing  dew, 

To  steal  some  fever  from  your  grief. 


After  our  child's  untroubled  breath 
Up  to  the  Father  took  its  way, 

And  on  our  home  the  shade  of  Death 
Like  a  long  twilight  haunting  lay, 

And  friends  came  round,  with  us  to  weep 
Her  little  spirit's  swift  remove, 

The  story  of  the  Alpine  sheep 
Was  told  to  us  by  one  we  love. 


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They,  in  the  valley's  sheltering  care, 
Soon  crop  the  meadow's  tender  prime, 

And  when  the  sod  grows  brown  and  bare, 
The  shepherd  strives  to  make  them  climb 

To  airy  shelves  of  pasture  green, 
That  hang  along  the  mountain's  side, 

Where  grass  and  flowers  together  lean, 
And  down  through  mist    the   sunbeams 
slide. 

But  nought  can  tempt  the  timid  things 
The  steep  and  rugged  paths  to  try, 

Though  sweet  the  shepherd  calls  and  sings, 
And  seared  below  the  pastures  lie, 

Till  in  his  arms  their  lambs  he  takes, 

Along  the  dizzy  verge  to  go  ; 
Then,  heedless  of  the  rifts  and  breaks, 

They  follow  on,  o'er  rock  and  snow. 


And  in  those  pastures,  lifted  fair, 
More  dewy-soft  than  lowland  mead, 

The  shepherd  drops  his  tender  care, 
And  sheep  and  iambs 'together  feed. 

This  parable,  by  Nature  breathed, 
Blew  on  me  as  the  south  wind  free 

O'er  frozen  brooks,  that  flow  unsheathed 
From  icy  thraldom  to  the  sea. 

A  blissful  vision,  through  the  night, 
Would  all  my  happy  senses  sway, 

Of  the  good  Shepherd  on  the  height, 
Or  climbing  up  the  starry  way, 

Holding  our  little  lamb  asleep,  — 
While,  like  the  murmur  of  the  sea, 

Sounded  that  voice  along  the  deep, 
Saying,  "Arise  and  follow  me  ! " 


LUCY  LARCOM. 

[Born  at  Beverly  Farms,  Mass.,  in  1826.] 


HANNAH  BINDING  SHOES. 


POOR  lone  Hannah, 
Sitting  at  the  window,  binding  shoes, 

Faded,  wrinkled, 

Sitting,  stitching,  in  a  mournful  muse. 
Bright-eyed  beauty  once  was  she, 
When  the  bloom  was  on  the  tree : 

Spring  and  winter, 
Hannah's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

Not  a  neighbor 
Passing  nod  or  answer  will  refuse 

To  her  whisper, 

"  Is  there  from  the  fishers  any  news?  " 
O,  her  heart's  adrift  with  one 
On  an  endless  voyage  gone  ! 

Night  and  morning 
Hannah's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

Fair  young  Hannah, 
Ben,  the  sunburnt  fisher,  gayly  woos : 

Hale  and  clever, 
For  a  willing  heart  and  hand  he  suest 


May-day  skies  are  all  aglow, 
And  the  waves  are  laughing  so  ! 

For  her  wedding 
Hannah  leaves  her  window  and  her  shoes. 

May  is  passing : 
'Mid  the  apple-boughs  a  pigeon  coos. 

Hannah  shudders, 

For  the  mild  southwester  mischief  brews. 
Round  the  rocks  of  Marblehead, 
Outward  bound,  a  schooner  sped : 

Silent,  lonesome, 
Hannah's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

'Tis  November ; 
Now  no  tear  her  wasted  cheek  bedews. 

From  Newfoundland 
Not  a  sail  returning  will  she  lose, 
Whispering  hoarsely,  "  Fishermen, 
Have  you,  have  you  heard  of  Ben  ? 

Old  with  watching, 
Hannah's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


609 


Twenty  winters 
Bleach  and  tear  the  ragged  shores  she  views. 

Twenty  seasons :  — 
Never  one  lias  brought  her  any  news. 


Still  her  dim  eyes  silently 

Chase  the  white  sails  o'er  the  sea : 

Hopeless,  faithful, 
Hannah's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 


HENRY  TIMROD. 


[Born  at  Charleston,  S.  C,  December,  1830.     Died  in  Columbia,  S.  C,  October  8,  1867.] 

ODE, 

SUNG  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  DECORATING  THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  CONFEDERATE  DEAD, 
AT  MAGNOLIA  CEMETERY,  CHARLESTON,  S.  C. 
i. 

Behold  !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 


SLEEP  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause, 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 


In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 
The  blossom  of  our  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere  waiting  for  its  birth 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone  ! 

in. 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 
Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 


Small  tributes  !  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 

Than  when  some  cannon-mouldered  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

v. 
Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies ; 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned  ! 


REV.   WALTER   MITCHELL. 

[From  Atlantic  Monthly,  January,  1858.] 
TACKING   SHIP   OFF   SHORE. 


THE  weather  leach  of  the  topsail  shivers, 
The  bowlines  strain  and  the  lee  shrouds 

slacken, 

The  braces  are  taut,  the  lithe  boom  quivers, 
And  the  waves  with  the  coming  squall- 
cloud  blacken. 


I  stand  at  the  wheel,  and,  with  eager  eye, 
To  sea,  and  to  sky,  and  to  shore  I  gaze, 
Till    the    muttered    order  of    <:  FULL  AND 


Is    suddenly    changed 
STAYS  1 " 


to 


"  FULL    FOR 


Open,  one  point  on  the  weather  bow, 

Is  the  light-house  tall  on  Fire  Island  head  ; 

There's  a  shade  of  doubt  on  the  captain's 

brow, 
And  the  pilot  watches  the  heaving  lead. 

39 


The  ship  bends  lower  before  the  breeze, 
As  her  broadside  fair  to  the  blast  she  lays  ; 

And  she  swifter  springs  to  the  rising  seas. 
As    the    pilot    calls,     "STAND    BY    FOR 
STAYS ! " 


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It  is  silence  all,  as  each  in  his  place, 
With  the  gathered  coils  in  his  hardened 
hands, 

By  tack  and  bowline,  by  sheet  and  brace, 
Waiting  the  watchword  impatient  stands. 


And  the  light  on  Fire  Island  head   draws 

near, 

As,  trumpet-winged,  the  pilot's  shout 
From  his  post   on  the   bowsprit's    heel   I 

hear, 

With   the  welcome    call    of    "READY! 
ABOUT  ! " 


No  time  to  spare  !    It  is  touch  and  go  ; 
And  the  captain  growls,    "  DOWN  HELM  ! 

HARD  DOWN  ! " 

As   my  weight  on   the  whirling    spokes   I 
'  throw, 

While  heaven  grows  black  with  the  storm- 
cloud's  frown. 


High  o'er  the  knight-heads  flies  the  spray, 
As  we  meet  the  shock  of  the  plunging  sea  ; 

And  my  shoulder  stiff  to  the  wheel  I  lay, 
As  I  answer,   "AY,    AY,    SIR!  HA-A-R-D 
A- LEE!  " 


With  the  swerving  leap  of  a  startled  steed, 
The  ship  flies  fast  in  the  eye  of  the  wind, 

The  dangerous  shoals  on  the  lee  recede, 
And    the    headland  white  we    have    left 
behind. 


The  topsails  flutter,  the  jibs  collapse 
And  belly  and  tug  at  the  groaning  cleats, 


The  spanker  slats,  and  the  mainsail  flaps, 
And  thunders   the   order,    "  TACKS  AND 
SHEETS ! " 


'Mid  the  rattle  of  blocks  and  the  tramp  of 

the  crew, 

Hisses  the  rain  of  the  rushing  squall ; 
The  sails  are  l>lack  from  clew  to  clew, 
And  now  is  the  moment  for  "  MAINSAIL, 
HAUL !" 

XII. 

And  the  heavy  yards,  like  a  baby's  toy, 
By  fifty  strong  arms  are  swiftly  swung ; 

She  holds  her  way,  and  I  look  with  joy 
For  the  first  white  spray  o'er  the  bulwarks 
flung. 

XIII. 

"  LET  GO  AND  HAUL  !  "     'Tis  the  last  com- 
mand, 
And  the  head-sails  fill  to  the  blast  once 

more  ; 

Astern  and  to  leeward  lies  the  land, 
With  its  breakers  white  on  the   shingly 
shore. 

XIV. 

What  matters  the  reef,  or  the  rain,  or  the 

squall  ? 

I  steady  the  helm  for  the  open  sea ; 
The  first  mate  clamors,    "BELAY  THERE, 

ALL  !  " 

And  the  captain's  breath  once  more  comes 
free. 

xv. 

And  so  off  shore  let  the  good  ship  fly ; 
Little  care  I  how  the  gusts  may  blow, 
In  my  fo'castle-bunk  in  a  jacket  dry,  — 
Eight  bells  have  struck,  and  my  watch  is 
below. 


HAND-BOOK    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS.  6 1 1 

CHARLES   JAMES   SPRAGUE. 

[Born  in  Boston,  January  16,  1823.     Still  a  resident  of  this  city.] 

TO   MY   HERBARIUM. 

YE  dry  and  dead  remains  !  Turned  to  the  god  of  day, 

Poor,   wrinkled    remnants   of  a  beauteous  Your  little  lips  come,  prayerfully,  apart, 

prime  '.  With  the  soft  breeze  your  leaves,  reviving, 
Why,  from  your  final  doom,  should  I  take  play 

pains  Sweet  music  to  my  heart. 

To  stay  the  hand  of  time? 

The  world  would  pass  you  by ;  The  friend  who  in  those  years 

For  beauty,    grace,    and  fragrance  all  are      Shared  warmly  in  my  rambles,  far  and  wide, 

gone.  Back,  with  the  same  old  fondness,  reappears, 

Your  age  is  homeliness  to  every  eye,  And  trudges  at  my  side. 

And  prized  by  me  alone. 

These  are  your  charms  to  me  ! 
Not  beautiful,  but  dear, 

,,  i  11  ti  While  such  dear  recollections  ye  awake, 

Your  wrecks  recall  to  me  the  happy  past ;  _,  .        ...         ,  ...         .        , 

,ir      ,  ...  Your  ruins,    blackened,    crumbling   though 

Wand-hke,  your  stems  can  summon  to  ap-  , 

they  be, 

I  treasure  for  their  sake. 
The  days  that  could  not  last. 

I  breathe  the  summer  air  !  May  I,  like  you,  dry  flowers, 

I  wander  in  the  woodland  paths  once  more  !  When  in  young  life  I  can  no  more  engage, 

Again  the  copse,  the  dell,  the  meadow,  wear  A  dear  memento  be  of  happy  hours 

The  loveliness  of  yore.  To  those  who  tend  my  age. 


ELIZABETH  (LLOYD)  HOWELL. 
MILTON'S  PRAYER  OF  PATIENCE. 

I  AM  old  and  blind  !  When  friends  pass  by,  my  weaknesses  to 

Men  point  at  me  as  smitten  by  God's  frown ;  shun, 

Afflicted  and  deserted  of  my  kind,  Thy  chariot  I  hear. 
Yet  am  I  not  cast  down. 

Thy  glorious  face 

I  am  weak,  yet  strong :  Is  leaning  towards  me,  and  its  holy  light 

I  murmur  not  that  I  no  longer  see  ;  Shines  in  upon  my  lonely  dwelling-place, 

Poor,  old,  and  helpless,   I  the  more  be-  And  there  is  no  more  night. 

long, 

Father  supreme  !  to  thee.  On  my  bended  knee 

I  recognize  thy  purpose,  clearly  shown  ; 

All-merciful  One  !  My  vision  thou  hast  dimmed  that  I  may 

When  men  are  farthest,  then  art  thou  most  see 

near;  Thyself,  Thyself  alone. 


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HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


I  have  nought  to  fear  ; 
This  darkness  is  the  shadow  of  thy  wing  ; 

Beneath  it  I  am  almost  sacred,  —  here 
Can  come  no  evil  thing. 

O  !  I  seem  to  stand, 
Trembling,  where  foot  of  mortal  ne'er  hath 

been, 
Wrapped  in  that  radiance  from  the  sinless 

land 
Which  eye  hath  never  seen. 

Visions  come  and  go, 

Shapes    of  resplendent    beauty    round    me 
throng ; 


From  angel-lips  I  seem  to  hear  the  flow 
Of  soft  and  holy  song, 

In  a  purer  clime 

My   being    fills   with    rapture,     waves    of 
thought 

Roll  in  upon  my  spirit,  strains  sublime 
Break  over  me  unsought. 

Give  me  now  my  lyre  ! 
I  feel  the  stirrings  of  a  gift  divine  ; 

Within  my  bosom  glows  unearthly  fire 
Lit  by  no  skill  of  mine. 


ABBA   GOOLD    WOOLSON. 

(Born  at  Windham,  Me..  April  30,  1838.     Educated  at  Portland  High  School.     Married 
M.    Woolson,   a  master  in  the  English  High  School,  Boston.] 

OVER   THE   HILLS. 


I  SIT  upon  Wachuset,  and  behold 
Far  to  the  north  New  Hampshire's  moun- 
tains rise  ; 

Nor  steepled  towns  nor  forest  lands,   un- 
rolled 

In  near,  encircling  vales,  can  tempt  my 
eyes 

From  those  blue  peaks  that  skirt  the  distant 
scene, 

Veiling  with  softer  light  their  brows  serene. 

Withdrawn  in  misty  shadows,  grandly  dim, 
Monadnock  towers  supreme  o'er  all  the 

view ; 
While  faint  as  dreams,  upon  the  horizon's 

rim, 

The  Unkanoonucs  lift  their  domes  of  blue, 
And  clustered  fair,  in  nearer  plains  below, 
The  hills  of  Sharon  catch  the  sunset  glow. 

I  see  no  longer  town  or  gleaming  pond, 
Bathed  in  the  mellow  splendors  of  the  west, 

But  gaze  away  to  those  cool  heights  beyond, 
Where  wavy  range  and  solitary  crest 

Speak  to  my  heart  of  scenes  I  loved  of  yore 

Beneath  their  slopes,  in  days  that  are  no 
more. 


O,  lone  bird,  soaring  near  this  airy  peak 
Whereon  I  sjt,  stay  not  for  darkening  skies ; 

O'er  rosy  lakes  and  purpling  valleys  seek 
A  little  city  in  the  north  that  lies 

Set  low  in  meadows  by  a  river  wide, 

With  trees  embowered  and  fields  on  either 
side. 

When  there,  alit  upon  some  gilded  vane 

That  tells  its  dwellers  of  the  veering  wind, 
Your  eye  shall  scan  the  movements  on  the 

plain, 
The  haunts  I  love,  the  friends  there  left 

behind  ; 

Look  sharp  and  long,  for  I  shall  question  well, 
When  home  you  speed  again,  your  tale  to  tell. 

O,  little  bird,  sweet  bird,  the  shadows  grow ' 
I  sit  alone  and  watch  the  sunset  pale 

Behind  your  flight,  while  in  the  woods  below 
Shudders  the  night  wind  rustling  from  the 
vale  ; 

Yet  fancy  flies  to  see  you  settling  down 

With  sunrise  carols  o'er  that  river  town. 


» 


HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


6i3 


FORCEYTHE   WILLSON. 


THE   OLD   SERGEANT. 


"COME  a  little  nearer,  —  thank  you, —let 

me  take  the  cup  : 
Draw  your  chair  up,  —  draw  it  closer,  — just 

another  little  sup  ! 
May  be  you  may  think  I'm  better ;  but  I'm 

pretty  well  used  up,  — 
Doctor,  you've  done  all  you  could  do,  but 

I'm  just  a  going  up  ! 


"  And  I  wondered  who  could  call  me  so  dis- 
tinctly and  so  slow. 

Knew  it  couldn't  be  the  lighter  —  he  could 
not  have  spoken  so,  — 

And  I  tried  to  answer,  '  Here,  sir  ' '  but  I 
couldn't  make  it  go  ; 

For  I  couldn't  move  a  muscle,  and  I  couldn't 
make  it  go  I 


"  Feel  my  pulse,  sir,  if  you  want  to,  but  it 
ain't  much  use  to  try." 

"Never  say  that,"  said  the  surgeon,  as  he 
smothered  down  a  sigh  ; 

"  It  will  never  do,  old  comrade,  for  a  soldier 
to  say  die  !  " 

"What  you  say  will  make  no  difference,  Doc- 
tor, when  you  come  to  die," 

"Doctor,  what  has  been  the  matter  ?"  "You 
were  very  faint,  they  say  ; 

You  must  try  to  get  some  sleep  now."  "Doc- 
tor, have  I  been  away?" 

"Not  that  anybody  knows  of !"  "Doctor 
—  Doctor,  please  to  stay  ! 

There  is  something  I  must  tell  you,  and  you 
won't  have  long  to  stay  ! 

"  I  have  got  my  marching  orders,  and  I'm 

ready  now  to  go  ; 
Doctor,  did  you  sny  I  fainted  ?  but  it  couldn't 

ha'  been  so,  — 
For  as  sure  as   I'm   a   sergeant,   and  was 

wounded  at  Shiloh, 
I've  this  very  night  been  back  there,  on  the 

old  field  of  Shiloh  ! 


"Then  I  thought,  It's  all  a  nightmare,  all  a 

humbug  and  a  bore  ; 
Just  another  fboiifth/ntyf«-iMMV —  and  it  won't 

come  any  more  ; 
But  it  came,  sir,  notwithstanding,  just  the 

same  way  as  before  :  — 
'ORDERLY  SERGEANT  — ROBERT  BURTON  1' 

—  even  plainer  than  before. 

"  That  is  all  that  I  remember,  till  a  sudden 

burst  of  light, 
And  I  stood  beside  the  river,  where  we  stood 

that  Sunday  night, 
Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  the  dark  bluffs 

opposite, 
When  the  river  was  perdition,  and  all  hell 

was  opposite  ! 

"And  the  same  old  palpitation  came  again 

in  all  its  power, 
And  I  heard  a  bugle  sounding,  as  from  some 

celestial  tower ; 
And  the  same  mysterious  voice  said,   '  IT  is 

THE  ELEVENTH  HOUR  ! 
ORDERLY  SERGEANT  —  ROBERT  BURTON  — 

IT  IS  THE  ELEVENTH  HOUR  !  ' 


"  This  is  all  thnt  I  remember  :  The  last  time 

the  lighter  came, 
And  the  lights  had  all  been  lowered,  and  the 

noises  much  the  same, 
He  had  not  been  £one  five  minutes  before 

something  called  my  name  : 
'  ORDERLY  SERGEANT  —  ROBERT  BURTON  ! ' 

— just  that  way  it  called  my  name. 


"  Doctor  Austin  !  —  what  day  is  this  ?  "    "  It 

is  Wednesday  night,  you  know." 
"Yes,  —  to-morrow  will  be  New  Year's,  and 

a  right  good  time  below ! 
What  time  is  it,  Doctor  Austin  ?  "   "  Nearly 

twelve. "     "  Then  don't  you  go ! 
Can  it  be  that  all  this  happened  —  all  this — 

not  an  hour  ago  ! 


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"This  was  where  the  gunboats  opened  on 

the  dark  rebellious  host, 
And  where  Webster  semicircled  his  last  guns 

upon  the  coast ; 
Here  were  still  the  two  log-houses  just  the 

same,  or  else  their  ghosts,  — 
And  the  same  old  transport  came,  and  took 

me  over  —  or  its  ghost ! 

"And  the  old  field  lay  before  me  all  deserted 

far  and  wide  ; 
There  was  where  they  fell  on  Prentiss,  — 

there  McClernand  met  the  tide  ; 
There  was  where  stern  Sherman  rallied,  and 

where  Hurlbut's  heroes  died,  — 
Lower  down,  where  Wallace  charged  them, 

and  kept  charging  till  he  died. 

"There  was  where  Lew  Wallace  showed 

them  he  was  of  the  canny  kin, 
There  was  where  old  Nelson  thundered,  and 

where  Rousseau  waded  in  ; 
There  McCook  sent  'em  to  breakfast,  and  we 

all  began  to  win  — 
There  was  where  the  grape-shot  took  me, 

just  as  we  began  to  win. 

"  Now,  a  shroud  of  snow  and  silence  over 
everything  was  spread ; 

And  but  for  this  old  blue  mantle  and  the  old 
hat  on  my  head, 

I  should  not  have  even  doubted,  to  this  mo- 
ment, I  was  dead, — 

For  my  footsteps  were  as  silent  as  the  snow 
upon  the  dead ! 

"  Death  and  silence  !    Death  and  silence !  all 

around  me  as  I  sped  ! 
And  behold,  a  mighty  tower,  as  if  builded  to 

the  dead,  — 
To  the  heaven  of  the  heavens,  lifted  up  its 

mighty  head, 
Till  the    stars  and    stripes    of   heaven  all 

seemed  waving  from  its  head  ! 

Y 

"Round  and  mighty-based  it  towered  — up 
into  the  infinite  — 

And  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  could  have 
built  a  shaft  so  bright ; 

For  it  shone  like  solid  sunshine  ;  and  a  wind- 
ing stair  of  light, 

Wound  around  it  and  around  it  till  it  wound 
clear  out  of  sight  1 


And,  behold,  as  I  approached  it  —  with  a  rapt 
and  dazzled  stare,  —  •  . 

Thinking  that  I  saw  old  comrades  just  as- 
cending the  great  stair,  — 

Suddenly  the  solemn  challenge  broke  of— 
'  Halt,  and  who  goes  there  ! ' 

' I'm  a  friend, '  I  said,  'if  you  are.'  'Then 
advance,  sir,  to  the  stair  ! ' 

"  I  advanced  !  —  That  sentry,  Doctor,  was 
Elijah  Ballantyne  !  — 

First  of  all  to  fall  on  Monday,  after  we  had 
formed  the  line  !  — 

'  Welcome,  my  old  Sergeant,  welcome  !  Wel- 
come by  that  countersign  ! ' 

And  he  pointed  to  the  scar  there,  under  this 
old  cloak  of  mine  ! 

"As  he  grasped  my  hand,  I  shuddered,  think- 
ing only  of  the  grave  ; 

But  he  smiled  and  pointed  upward  with  a 
bright  and  bloodless  glaive  ; 

'  That's  the  way,  sir,  to  headquarters.'  'What 
headquarters  ? '  '  Of  the  brave. ' 

'  But  the  great  Tower  ? '  '  That,'  he  answered, 
'  Is  the  way,  sir,  of  the  brave  1 ' 

"Then  a  sudden  shame  came  o'er  me  at  his 

uniform  of  light ; 
At  my  own  so  old  and  tattered,  and  at  his  so 

new  and  bright ; 
'  Ah,'  said  he,  '  you  have  forgotten  the  New 

Uniform  to-night,  — 
Hurry  back,  for  you  must  be  here  at  just 

twelve  o'clock  to-night ! ' 

"And  the  next  thing  I  remember,  you  were 

sitting  there,  and  I  — 
Doctor — did  you  hear  a  footstep?    Hark  — 

God  bless  you  all !     Good  by  t 
Doctor,  please  to  give  my  musket  and  my 

knapsack,  when  I  die, 
To  my  son  —  my   son   that's   coming — he 

won't  get  here  till  I  die  ! 

"  Tell  him  his  old  father  blessed  him  as  he 

never  did  before,  — 
And  to  carry  that  old  musket  —  "    Hark  !  a 

knock  is  at  the  door  !  — 
"Till  the   Union  —  "     See!   it    opens'.— 

"  Father,  father  !  speak  once  more  !  " 
"  Bless  you  !  "  gasped  the  old  gray  sergeant, 

and  he  lay  and  said  no  more  1 


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6i5 


LOUISE  CHANDLER   MOULTON. 

[Born  at  Pomfret,  Conn.,  1835.     Married  Wm.  U.  Moulton,  of  Boston.     Contributor  to 
Harper's,  the  New  York  Tribune,  &c.] 

THE   HOUSE   IN  THE   MEADOW. 


IT  stands  in  a  sunny  meadow, 
The  house  so  mossy  and  brown, 

With  its  cumbrous  old  stone  chimneys, 
And  the  gray  roof  sloping  down. 

The  trees  fold  their  green  arms  round  it  — 

The  trees  a  century  old  ; 
And  the  winds  go  chanting  through  them, 

And  the  sunbeams  drop  their  gold. 

The  cowslips  spring  in  the  marshes, 

The  roses  bloom  on  the  hill, 
And  beside  the  brook  in  the  pasture 

The  herds  go  feeding  at  will. 

Within,  in  the  wide  old  kitchen, 

The  old  folk  sit  in  the  sun, 
That  creeps  through  the  sheltering  woodbine, 

Till  the  day  is  almost  done. 

Their  children  have  gone  and  left  them  ; 

They  sit  in  the  sun  alone  • 
And  the  old  wife's  ears  are  failing 

As  she  harks  to  the  well-known  tone 

That  won  her  heart  in  her  girlhood, 
That  has  soothed  her  in  many  a  care, 

And  praises  her  now  for  the  brightness 
Her  old  face  used  to  wear. 

She  thinks  again  of  her  bridal  — 
How,  dressed  in  her  robe  of  white, 

She  stood  by  her  gay  young  lover 
In  the  morning's  rosy  light. 

O,  the  morning  is  rosy  as  ever, 

But  the  rose  from  her  cheek  is  fled  ; 

And  the  sunshine  still  is  golden, 
But  it  falls  on  a  silvered  head. 

And  the  girlhood  dreams,  once  vanished, 

Come  back  in  her  winter  time, 
Till  her  feeble  pulses  tremble 

With  the  thrill  of  spring-time's  prime. 

And  looking  forth  from  the  window, 
She  thinks  how  the  trees  have  grown 


Since,  dad  in  her  bridal  whiteness, 
She  crossed  the  old  door-stone. 

Though  dimmed  her  eyes'  bright  azure, 
And  dimmed  her  hair's  young  gold, 

The  love  in  her  girlhood  plighted 
Has  never  grown  dim  or  old. 

They  sat  in  peace  in  the  sunshine 

Till  the  day  was  almost  done, 
And  then,  at  its  close,  an  angel 

Stole  over  the  threshold  stone. 

He  folded  their  hands  together  — 
He  touched  their  eyelids  with  balm, 

And  their  last  breath  floated  outward, 
Like  the  close  of  a  solemn  psalm  I 

Like  a  bridal  pair  they  traversed 

The  unseen,  mystical  road 
That  leads  to  the  Beautiful  City, 

Whose  "builder  and  maker  is  God." 

Perhaps  in  that  miracle  country 
They  will  give  her  lost  youth  back, 

And  the  flowers  of  the  vanished  spring-time 
Will  bloom  in  the  spirit's  track. 

One  draught  from  the  living  waters 
Shall  call  back  his  manhood's  prime } 

And  eternal  years  shall  measure 
The  love  that  outlasted  time. 

But  the  shapes  that  they  left  behind  them, 

The  wrinkles  and  silver  hair  — 
Made  holy  to  us  by  the  kisses 

The  angel  had  printed  there  — 

We  will  hide  awny  'neath  the  willows. 
When  the  day  is  low  in  the  west, 

Where  the  sunbeams  cannot  find  them, 
Nor  the  winds  disturb  their  rest. 

And  we'll  suffer  no  tell-tale  tombstone. 

With  its  age  and  date,  to  rise 
O'er  the  two  who  are  o!d  no  longer, 

In  the  Father's  house  in  the  skies. 


6i6 


HAND-BOOK    OF   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN. 


[Born  at  Hartford,  Conn.,  1833.     A  resident  of  New  York.] 
THE  MOUNTAIN. 


Two  thousand  feet  in  air  it  stands 
Betwixt  the  bright  and  shaded  lands, 
Above  the  regions  it  divides 
And  borders  with  its  furrowed  sides. 
The  seaward  valley  laughs  with  light 
Till  the  round  sun  o'erhangs  this  height ; 
But  then  the  shadow  of  the  crest 
No  more  the  plains  that  lengthen  west 
Enshrouds,  yet  slowly,  surely  creeps 
Eastward,  until  the  coolness  steeps 
A  darkling  league  of  tilth  and  wold, 
And  chills  the  flocks  that  seek  their  fold. 

Not  like  those  ancient  summits  lone, 
Mont  Blanc,  on  his  eternal  throne,  — 
The  city-gemmed  Peruvian  peak,  — 
The  sunset  portals  landsmen  seek, 
Whose  train,  to  reach  the  Golden  Land, 
Crawls  slow  and  pathless  through  the  sand, 
Or  that,  whose  ice-lit  beacon  guides 
The  mariner  on  tropic  tides, 
And  flames  across  the  gulf  afar, 
A  torch  by  day,  by  night  a  star,  — 
Not  thus,  to  cleave  the  outer  skies, 
Does  my  serener  mountain  rise, 
Nor  aye  forget  its  gentle  birth, 
Upon  the  dewy,  pastoral  earth. 

But  ever,  in  the  noonday  light, 

Are  scenes  whereof  I  love  the  sight,  — • 

Broad  pictures  of  the  lower  world 

Beneath  my  gladdened  eyes  unfurled. 

Irradiate  distances  reveal 

Fair  nature  wed  to  human  weal ; 

The  rolling  valley  made  a  plain  ; 

Its  checkered  squares  of  grass  and  grain  ; 

The  silvery  rye,  the  golden  wheat, 

The  flowery  elders  where  they  meet,  — 

Ay,  even  the  springing  corn  I  see, 

And  garden  hnunts  of  bird  and  bee  ; 

And  where,  in  daisied  meadows,  shines 

The  wandering  river  through  its  vines, 

Move  specks  at  random,  which  I  know 

Are  herds  a-grazing  to  and  fro. 

If  foiled  in  what  I  fain  would  know, 


Again  I  turn  my  eyes  below 
And  eastward,  past  the  hither  mead 
Where  all  day  long  the  cattle  feed ; 
A  crescent  gleam  my  sight  allures 
And  clings  about  the  hazy  moors,  — 
The  great,  encircling,  radiant  sea, 
Alone  in  its  immensity. 

Even  there,  a  queen  upon  its  shore, 
I  know  the  city  evermore 
Her  palaces  and  temples  rears, 
And  \voos  the  nations  to  her  piers; 
Yet  the  proud  city  seems  a  mole 
To  this  horizon-bounded  whole  ; 
And,  from  my  station  on  the  mount, 
The  whole  is  little  worth  account 
Beneath  the  overhanging  sky, 
That  seems  so  far  and  yet  so  nigh. 
Here  breathe  I  inspiration  rare, 
Unburdened  by  the  grosser  air 
That  hugs  the  lower  land,  and  feel 
Through  all  my  finer  senses  steal 
The  life  of  what  that  life  may  be, 
Freed  from  this  dull  earth's  density, 
When  \ve,  with  many  a  soul-felt  thrill, 
Shall  thrid  the  elher  at  our  will, 
Through  winding  corric!ors  of  morn 
And  starry  archways  swiftly  borne. 

Here,  in  the  process  of  the  night, 

The  stars  themselves  a  purer  light 

Give  out,  than  reaches  those  who  gaze 

Enshrouded  with  the  valley's  haze. 

October,  entering  Heaven's  fane, 

Assumes  her  lucent,  annual  reign  ; 

Then  what  a  dark  and  dismal  clod, 

Forsaken  by  the  sons  of  God, 

Seems  this  sad  world,  to  those  who  march 

Across  the  high,  illumined  arch, 

And  with  their  brightness  draw  me  forth 

To  scan  the  splendors  of  the  North  I 

I  see  the  Dragon,  as  he  toils 

With  Ursa  in  his  shining  coils, 

And  mark  the  Huntsman  lift  his  shield, 

Confronting  on  the  ancient  field 

The  Bull,  while  in  a  mystic  row 


HAND-BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


6i7 


The  jewels  of  his  girdle  glow  : 

Or,  haply,  I  may  ponder  long 

On  that  remoter,  sparkling  throng, 

The  orient  sisterhood,  around 

Whose  chief  our  Galaxy  is  wound  ; 

Thus  half  enwrapt  in  classic  dreams, 

And  brooding  over  Learning's  gleams, 

I  leave  to  gloom  the  under  land, 

And  from  my  watch-tower,  close  at  hand. 

Like  him  who  led  the  favored  race, 

I  look  on  glory  face  to  face  1 


So,  on  the  mountain-top,  alone, 
I  dwell,  as  one  who  holds  a  throne  ; 
Or  prince,  or  peasant,  him  I  count 
My  peer,  who  stands  upon  a  mount. 
Sees  farther  than  the  tribes  below, 
And  knows  the  joys  they  cannot  know ; 
And,  though  beyond  the  sound  of  speech 
They  reign,  my  soul  goes  out  to  reach, 
Far  on  iheir  noble  heights  elsewhere, 
My  brother-monarchs  of  the  air. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

[Born  in  Hardin  County,  Kentucky,  February  12,  1809.     Died  April  15,  1865.] 
ADDRESS   AT   GETTYSBURG,   NOVEMBER,    1863. 

FOURSCORE  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought  forth  upon 
this  continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to 
the  proposition  that  all  men  are  created  equal.  Now  we  are  engaged 
in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether  that  nation,  or  any  nation  so 
conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can  long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a 
great  battle-field  of  that  war.  We  have  come  to  dedicate  a  portion 
of  that  field  as  a  final  resting-place  for  those  who  here  gave  their 
lives  that  that  nation  might  live.  It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper 
that  we  should  do  this.  But  in  a  larger  sense  we  cannot  dedicate, 
we  cannot  consecrate,  we  cannot  hallow  this  ground.  The  brave 
men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here,  have  consecrated  it  far 
above  our  power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world  will  little  note,  nor 
long  remember,  what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never  forget  what  they 
did  here.  It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather  to  be  dedicated  here  to  the 
unfinished  work  which  they  who  fought  here  have  thus  far  so  nobly 
advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated  to  the  great  task 
remaining  before  us,  that  from  these  honored  dead  we  take  increased 
devotion  to  that  cause  for  which  they  gave  the  last  full  measure  of 
devotion  ;  that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead  shall  not 
have  died  in  vain  ;  that  this  nation,  under  God,  shall  have  a  new 
birth  of  freedom,  and  that  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people, 
and  for  the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth. 


NOTES. 


Page  13.  The  last  paragraphs  on  this  page  contain  the  ideas  afterwards  amplified  by 
Mr.  Webster  in  his  version  of  what  Mr.  Adams's  speech  in  support  of  the  Declaration 
might  have  been. 

P.  1 8.  Catholic  is  here  used  in  its  original  sense  of  general  or  universal.  — Amor 
pair  ice.  Love  of  country. 

P.  20.     Conge,.     Leave  to  depart. 

P.  23.     Saxum  vetustum.     An  ancient  rock. 

P.  27.  Omtie  tulit  punctum  qui  miscuit  utile  dulci.  He  carries  every  point  who  min- 
gles the  useful  with  the  agreeable. 

P.  35.  Granger.  Hon.  Gideon  Granger,  who  was  postmaster-general  under  Jefferson 
and  Madison,  resided  at  Suffield,  Conn.,  on  the  route  of  the  mail  coaches  to  Washington. 
Suffield  was  the  "imperial  city,"  and  it  was  probably  famed  for  the  articles  of  commerce 
playfully  mentioned  by  Mr.  Ames. 

P.  53.  Louis  Bourdaloue.  An  eminent  French  preacher  (1632-1704).  —  Jean  Baptiste 
Massillon.  A  brilliant  pulpit  orator  (1663-1742). 

P.  59.    Palinuriis.     The  pilot  in  Virgil's  ^Eneid. 

P.  63.     Nimbus.     A  cloud. 

P.  76.  Michael  Angela.  Michael  Angelo  Buonarotti,  sculptor,  architect,  painter,  and 
poet ;  a  man  of  colossal  genius  (1474-1563). 

P.  81.  — another  morn 

Risen  on  mid  noon. 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  V.  1.  310. 

P.  97.     Haroun  Alraschid.     A  famous  caliph  in  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights. 

P.  133.  Mine,  de  Stael.  Daughter  of  Necker,  minister  of  finance  to  Louis  XVI.  Cel- 
ebrated as  a  leader  in  politics  and  in  society  (1766-1817). — Attila.  King  of  the  Huns. 
Began  to  reign  A.  D.  434.  See  note  on  p.  598.  —  Genghis  Khan.  A  Tartar  conqueror 
(1160-1227). —  The  Justinian  Collection.  The  Roman  law  was  digested  into  a  code  by 
order  of  the  Emperor  Justinian  (482-565). 

P.  134.  Voltaire.  The  assumed  name  of  Francois  Arouet,  a  wit,  poet,  and  deistical 
writer  (1694-1778).  —  Pulchre  !  be  tie  !  optime  !  Beautiful  !  well  done  !  excellent  !  —  Racine 
(yean).  A  French  tragic  poet  (1639-1699). 

P.  135.  Primus  ego  in  patriam.  I  am  first  in  my  country.  —  Comeille.  See  note  on 
p.  363.  —  Calderon  (de  la  Barca).  A  famous  Spanish  poet  and  dramatist  (1600-1681). 

P.  148.  Claude.  Claude  Gelee,  of  Lorraine,  the  greatest  of  landscape  painters  (1600- 
1682).  —  Salvator.  Salvator  Rosa,  a  great  Italian  painter  (1615-1673).  — Paul  Potter.  A 
Dutch  painter  of  animals  (1625-1654). 

P.  150.  Dante.  Dante  degli  Alighieri,  the  illustrious  Italian  poet  (1265-1321).  — 
Campanile.  A  bell  tower.  —  Michael  Angelo.  See  note  on  p.  76.  —  Raphael.  Raffaello 
Sanzio,  of  Urbino,  a  famous  painter  (1483-1520).  —  Titian.  Tiziano  Vercelli,  a  Venetian 
pain'.er  (1477-1576).  —  Lucumons.  The  appellation  of  the  ancient  Etruscan  priests  and 
princes. 

P.  151.    Ahimel  &c.     The  lines  maybe  paraphrased  thus:     "Alas!  those  eyes  are 

619 


62O  NOTES. 

darkened  that  saw  more  than  was  ever  seen  in  the  ancient  times,  and  were  themselves  a 
light  to  future  ages.     At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesoti,  £c.     Paradise  Lost,  Book  I.  — 
Galileo.     The  famous  mathematician  and  astronomer  (1564-1642). 

P.  152.     E  pur  siiwiove.     And  yet  it  moves. 

P.  176.  Don  John  of  Austria.  Younger  brother  of  Philip  II.,  son  of  the  Emperor 
Charles  V. 

P.  186.  Cervantes  (Miguel  de).  Author  of  the  immortal  romance  of  Don  Quixote  (pron. 
Kehoty). 

P.  188.  Longinus.  A  Greek  critic  and  philosopher  (213-273).  See  account  of  his  fate, 
by  Gibbon,  in  English  Literature,  Vol.  I.,  art.  Zenobia. 

P.  190.     The  Stoics.     A  sect  of  philosophers  in  Athens,  followers  of  Zeno. 

P.  197.     Stuart  (Gilbert  Charles),  a  celebrated  American  portrait  painter  (1756-1828). 

P.  200.     His  look  drew  audience,  &c.     The  correct  reading  is  — 

his  look 

Drew  audience  and  attention  still  as  night 
Or  summer's  noontide  air. 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  II.  line  300. 

P.  201.      William  Penn  (1644-1718). 

P.  205.  Roger  Williams.  The  founder  of  Rhode  Island  (1606-1683).  —  Pascal. 
Blaise  Pascal,  an  eminent  philosopher  and  religious  writer,  born  in  Auvergne,  France 
(1623-1662). — Edwards.  Jonathan  Edwards.  See  Introduction. 

P.  231.     Can  these  things  be,  &c.     Shakespeare,  Macbeth,  Act  III.,  Scene  4. 

P.  234.  "The  Problem"  contains  the  noblest  lines  written  in  our  time.  The  imagery 
has  a  colossal  grandeur,  and  the  expression  is  perfectly  commensurate  with  tli2  thought. 

P.  241.  The  Hall  of ' Eblis  is  the  final  scene  in  a  supernatural  romance  of  singular  power, 
entitled  Vathek,  written  by  William  Beckford,  an  eccentric  Englishman. 

P.  242.     Jean  Paul  Richter,  a  German  philosopher  (1763-1825). 

P.  252.  The  Sclavi,  or  Slavonians,  were  the  progenitors  of  the  Russians,  the  Poles,  and 
other  nations  of  Eastern  Europe  and  Northern  Asia. 

P.  254.  Tortos  Ixionis  angues,  &c.  The  writhing  serpents  of  Ixion  and  the  huge 
wheel.  —  Rhizopod.  One  of  the  lowest  forms  of  animal  life. 

P.  256.  Faust  is  the  hero  of  a  poem  by  the  German  poet  Goethe  (Johann  Wolfgang  von) 
1749-1832.  The  precise  sound  of  the  name  cannot  be  represented  in  English  letters;  it 
is  something  like  Gerta  (G  hard),  and  something  like  Gerty.  —  Mephistopheles  is  the 
tempting  £end  in  the  story. 

P.  257.  General  Francis  Marion.  An  American  officer  in  the  revolutionary  war 
(1732-1795). 

P.  259.     For  Roderick  Dfiu,  see  Scott's  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

P.  262.  The  helmet  of  Mambrino.  This  is  an  allusion  to  Don  Quixote,  who  con- 
ceived that  he  must  needs  provide  himself  with  a  helmet  that  had  been  worn  by  a  hero  of 
romance,  and,  meeting  a  barber  who  carried  his  brass  basin  on  his  head,  he  seized  it,  and 
insisted  that  it  was  the  helmet  of  Mambrino  (a  personage  in  Orlando  Furioso,  Canto  I.). 

P.  264.      Weedlcss.     Without  clothing. 

P.  268.  Jacques  Bridaine.  A  famous  French  preacher  (1701-1767).  The  motto  is, 
Eternity  is  a  clock,  whose  pendulum  says,  and  repeats  without  cessation,  these  two  words 
only  in  the  silence  of  the  tombs,  Forever  !  never  !  Never  1  forever  ! 

P.  275.  The  Mouse  Tower.  Hatto  II.,  the  fifteenth  Archbishop  of  Mayence,  who  died 
about  975,  (according  to  the  legend)  was  devoured  by  mice  in  his  tower,  near  Bingen,  and 
the  people  thought  it  to  be  a  judgment  for  his  cruelty  in  having  refused  to  part  with 
provisions  when  there  was  a  great  scarcity. 

P.  284.  The  topography  of  Athens  cannot  be  elucidated  in  the  brief  space  of  a  note. 
Consult  Appleton's  Cyclopaedia,  art.  Athens  (written  by  Professor  Felton). 

P.  286.     Socrates.    An  Athenian  philosopher  (B.  C.  469-399). 


NOTES.  621 

P.  292.     Hafiz.    A  Persian  poet.     Born  early  in  ths  fourteenth  century,  died  1391. 

P.  273  Kosmos.  Literally  order,  the  universe.  —  The  Cross  is  the  constellation  visi- 
ble only  in  southern  latitudes,  as  the  Bear  is  seen  circling  the  pole  in  the  northern 
heavens. 

P.  294.  Than  Rome's  sky -mocking  vault,  or  many-spired  Milan.  The  reference  is 
to  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and  to  the  cathedral  of  Milan,  which  is  covered  with  a  myriad 
of  pinnacles  and  over  eight  thousand  statues. 

P.  306.     Stuart.     See  note  for  p.  197. 

P.  308.     Patois  (patwah).     A  local  or  provincial  corruption  of  language. 

P.  314.  Montaigne  (Michael  de).  A  celebrated  French  essayist  (1533-1589).  —  Blran- 
ger  (Pierre  Jean  de).  The  first  of  French  lyric  poets  (1780-1857). 

P.  315.  Sainte-Beuve  (Charles  Augustin).  Poet  and  critic  (1804-1871).  —  Canneries  du 
Lundi  (Monday  Chats)  is  the  title  of  a  series  of  critical  papers,  originally  issued  weekly, 

P.  317.  Aphrodite.  The  Greek  name  of  Venus.  —  Pallida  Mors.  Pale  death.  —Naked 
Pict.  An  allusion  to  a  couplet  commonly  attributed  to  Sir  Richard  Blackmore,  containing 
a  fine  specimen  of  a  bull :  — 

"A  painted  vest  Prince  Vortigern  had  on, 
Which  from  a  naked  Pict  his  grandsire  won." 

In  a  note  in  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson  [1767  ajtat.  60]  it  is  said  that  the  lines  were  not  by 
Blackmore,  but  had  been  altered  by  some  wag  from  a  passage  in  The  British  Princes  by 
the  Honorable  Edward  Howard :  — 

A  vest  as  admir'd  Voltiger  had  on, 

Which  from  this  Island's  foes  his  grandsire  won,  &c.,  &c. 

—  Antati.  The  name  of  a  family  in  Cremona,  famous,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  as  makers 
of  violins.  — Stradivarins  (Antonio),  father  and  son,  makers  of  violins,  also  at  Cremona. 

P.  318.  Maestros.  Masters.  —  Virtuoso.  A  collector  of  curiosities.  —  Dilettante.  A 
lover  (as  of  music). 

P.  320.     Ferce  natura.     Of  a  wild  nature. 

P.  325.     Purpurcos  spargam  flares.     I  will  scatter  purple  blossoms. 

P.  326.  Hyacinthus.  A  youth  beloved  by  Apollo,  killed  by  accident,  or  rather  changed, 
after  receiving  a  mortal  blow,  into  the  flower  that  bears  his  name. 

P.  331.     Antioch  has  been  recently  (1872)  almost  entirely  destroyed  by  earthquakes. 

P.  334.  O,  the  blood  more  stirs,  &c.  Shakespeare's  Henry  IV.,  Part  I.,  Act  I., 
Scene  3.  —  Ciia  mors,  &c.  Swift  death,  and  joyful  victory.  Horace,  Sat.  I.  i,  8. 

P-  337-  .  Siegfried.  The  hero  of  the  Norse  tales.  He  was  not  a  smith,  as  the  author 
seems  to  suppose.  She  is  thinking  of  the  smith  that  forged  Siegfried's  magic  sword. 

P.  338.  Fata  Morgana.  Castles  of  the  Fairy  Morgana,  a  form  of  mirage  occasionally 
seen  by  observers  standing  on  eminences  on  the  Calabrian  shore,  and  looking  westward 
upon  the  Strait  of  Messina.  It  occurs  on  still  mornings,  when  the  sun,  rising  behind  the 
mountains,  strikes  clown  upon  the  smooth  surface  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees.  The 
heat  then- acts  rapidly  upon  the  stagnant  air,  the  strata  of  which,,  slowly  intermingling, 
present  a  series  of  mirrors  which  variously  reflect  the  objects  upon  the  surface.  Objects 
upon  the  Sicilian  shore  opposite,  beneath  the  dark  background  of  the  mountains  of  Mes- 
sina, are  seen  refracted  and  reflected  upon  the  water  in  mid  channel,  presenting  enlarged 
and  duplicated  images.  Gigantic  figures  of  men  and  horses  move  over  the  picture,  as  simi- 
lar images  in  miniature  are  seen  flitting  across  the  white  sheet  of  the  camera  obscura. 

P.  342.  Fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves,  &c.  From  The  Nice  Valour,  by  J. 
Fletcher. 

P.  344.  Porphyrogcne,  from  IIopQvpoyivvriTos,  "born  in  the  purple:  "  a  title  given  to 
the  heir  of  a  Byzantine  emperor.  ' 

P.  350.     Gil  Bias.    The  hero  of  a  famous  novel  of  Spanish  life,  written  (in  French)  by 


622  NOTES. 

Alain  Rene  Le  Sage  (1668-1747).  The  English  translation  is  by  Smollett.  The  uncle,  Gil 
Perez,  was  an  ignorant  canon,  who  taught  his  nephew  to  read. 

P.  359.  Humboldt.  Alexander  von  Humbo'dt,  traveller,  naturalist,  and  philosopher 
(1769-1859).  —  IValker,  the  filibuster.  Attempts  were  made  in  1855,  and  later,  by  a  small 
party  of  Americans,  under  the  lead  of  William  Walker,  and  with  the  connivance  of  the 
United  States  authorities,  to  seize  upon  Nicaragua,  and  other  portions  of  the  Isthmus.  He 
was  at  last  overthrown  and  executed  in  Honduras  in  1860. 

P.  363.  Moliere.  A  comic  dramatist  of  France  (1622-1673).  By  the  French  consid- 
ered to  be  a  rival  of  Shakespeare.  —  Corneille.  Poet  and  dramatist.  Born  at  Rouen,  1606, 
died  at  Paris,  1684.  —  Bossuet.  Perhaps  the  greatest  of  French  preachers.  Born  at  Dijon, 
1627,  died  at  Paris,  1704. 

P.  365.  I  catch  the  last  words  of  music  from  the  lips  of  innocence  and  beauty.  The 
children  of  the  public  schools  of  Boston  sang  on  the  occasion. 

P.  366.  Truce  of  God.  An  institution  of  the  middle  a^es,  designed  to  mitigate  the  vio- 
lence of  private  war  by  prohibiting  engagement  in  hostilities,  at  least  on  the  holy  days,  from 
Thursday  evening  to  Sunday  evening  of  each  week,  also  during  the  entire  season  of  Advent 
and  Lent,  and  on  certain  festival  days.  —  Cestus.  A  girdle. 

P.  374.     A  rticles  of  vertu.     Objects  of  art  and  taste. 

P.  386.  Sir  Guyou  is  the  Knight  of  Temperance  (Faerie  Queene,  Book  II.),  and  Flor- 
imel  a  female  character  in  Book  III. 

P.  391.     O  sanctissima,  &c. 

"O  most  holy,  O  most  pure, 
Sweet  Virgin  Mary, 
Mother  beloved,  undefiled ! 
Pray,  pray  for  us." 

P.  398.  Ccesar.  The  emperor.  It  will  be  observed  that  the  name  has  come  to  signify 
an  absolute  monarch,  as  in  Kaiser  and  Czar. 

P.  404.  Corpo  santo.  Holy  body.  The  name  given  to  the  strange  electrical  bodies 
sometimes  seen  in  the  rigging  or  on  the  spars  of  a  ship. 

P.  407.     Ecce  iterum  Crispinus.     Lo  !  here  is  Crispinus  again.    Juvenal,  4th  Satire. 

P.  410.  The  lines  of  Moore  refer  to  the  death  of  Sheridan.  — Schiller.  Johann  Chr. 
Friedrich  von  Schi!ler,one  of  the  most  eminent  of  German  poets  and  dramatists  (1759-1804). 

P.  423.  Luca  della  Robbia.  A  sculptor  of  Florence  (1388-1463),  the  inventor  of 
enamelled  terra  cotta.  —  Certosa.  A  monastery  of  Carthusians  (Chartreuse  in  French, 
Charterhouse  in  English). 

P.  430.  Undine.  A  water  spirit,  in  the  romance  of  that  name  by  the  Baron  de  la  Motte 
Fouque.  —  Hafiz.  See  note  on  p.  292. 

P.  435.     Carrara.     A  district  in  Italy  famous  for  its  quarries  of  fine  white  marble. 

P.  441.     Empayred.     A  modern  author  would  use  the  word  "disparaged." 

The  English  language.  The  first  and  third  lines  of  each  stanza  are  dactylic  hexameters, 
acatal  :ctic,  with  spondaic  substitutions  ;  the  lines  that  alternate  are  hexameters  and 
pentnjiieters,  all  catalectic  in  one  syllable.  The  first  line  is  seen  to  be  symmetrical  with  the 
nrst  line  of  the  ^Eneid  :  — 

Give  me  of  |        every       I  language  I  first  my  I    vigorous    I  English. 
Arma  vi-      I  rumque  ca-  I   no  Tro-   I   jae  qui    |  primus  ab  I  oris. 

But  it  would  be  a  very  difficult  and  not  over  profitable  task,  in  a  treatise  like  this,  to  give 
an  analysis  of  all  the  lines.  Most  of  them  are  musical  and  correct,  but  some  are  only  rough 
and  vigorous,  e.  g.  :  — 


While  o'er  thy  |  bastions  wit  |  flashes  its  |  glittering  |  sword. 
Bastions  wit  does  not  make  a  very  elastic  dactyl. 


NOTES.  623 

The  spondaic  line,  — 

Now  clear,  |  pure,  hard,  |  bright,  and  |  one  by  |  one,  like  to  |  hail  stones, 

will  naturally  require  a  slow  and  deliberate  utterance.  Other  lines  seem  to  lead  to  a  change 
of  accent,  e.  g.  :  — 

"Iron  dug  from  the  North,  ductile  gold  from  the  South." 

In  this  line  the  reader  inevitably  fulls  into  the  accent  of  choriambic  metre,  and  reads  it  like 
two  choriambic  monometers,  with  a  spondee  for  a  basis,  thus :  — 

Iron        I  dug  from  the  North, 
Ductile  I  gold  from  the  South. 

A  very  simple  and  sufficient  direction  to  the  reader  is  to  think  only  of  the  musical  lilt,  and 
read  boldly.  As  in  skating,  the  danger  of  a  fall  is  while  halting  ;  when  the  motion  is  estab- 
lished, all  will  go  surely  and  smoothly.  It  is  not  possible  to  analyze  the  feet  with  the 
rapidity  of  reading,  and  determine  the  respective  quantities  of  the  syllables ;  but  if  the 
csesural  pause  is  established  as  a  central  point,  or  pivot,  the  swing  naturally  follows. 

It  is  commonly  said  by  writers  on  prosody  that  the  classic  metres  cannot  be  employed  in 
English,  because  English  words  do  not  have  "quantity."  We  venture  to  assert  that  they 
do  have  quantity,  and  that  the  knowledge  or  the  intuitive  feeling  of  quantity  is  what  gives 
the  subtile,  melodious  charm  to  the  verses  of  certain  poets.  We  should  not  go  further  and 
assert  that  rules  could  be  constructed,  as  in  Latin  and  Greek  prosody,  by  which  the  quan- 
tity of  every  syllable  could  be  ascertained  ;  but  the  reader  whose  ear  for  rhythm  has  been 
cultivated  will  find  that  English  words  arrange  themselves  naturally  in  long  and  short  syl- 
lables, and  that  an  English  hexameter  is  not  destitute  of  force,  music,  or  variety  of  expres- 
sion. The  measure  of  Evangeline  wi'l  occur  to  all  as  a  fine  specimen  of  constructive  art.  — 
Torres  Vedras.  A  town  in  Portugal,  admirably  fortified  by  Wellington  in  1810. 

P.  447.  Minerva,  in  the  classic  fable,  sprang  full  grown  and  armed  from  the  brain  of 
Jupiter. 

P.  451.  Artio.  A  river  that  flows  by  Florence.  —  Beatrice.  A  lady  beloved  by 
Dante.  —  Ghibelline.  The  people  of  Italy,  in  the  time  of  Dante,  were  divided  into  two 
political  parties,  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines.  The  former  espoused  the  cause  of  the  pope,  the 
latter  that  of  the  emperor.  —  Cum<z.  A  city  in  Italy,  near  which  was  the  famous  cave 
from  which  the  Sibylline  prophecies  were  uttered. 

P.  472.  Helper  of  mortals,  hear.  Ei?  A/jta.  This  is  commonly  put  seventh  in  the 
Homeric  hymns.  Hermann,  however,  after  Ruhnken,  prints  it  among  the  Orphic  hyrnns, 
and  it  is  probably  not  Homeric. 

P.  473.  Happy  then  are  they,  &c.  Etj  rr/i/  /^rfpa  jrai/rwv.  Hymn  20  in  Didot  collec- 
tion, 5-19  ve/ses.  — I  will  sing  a  new  song,  &c.  Psalm  cxliv.  9-15. 

P.  474.  Then  the  earth  shook,  &c.  Psalm  xviii.  7-16.  —  Then  he  sat  on  high,  &c. 
Iliad  xiii.  15-31. 

P.  475.  Like  leaves  on  trees,  &c.  Iliad  vi.  146-149.  —  As  for  man,  &c.  Psalm  ciii. 
13-18, 

P.  487.     Dele.     Omit. 

P.  516.  Claude.  See  note  on  p.  148.  —  Turner  (Joseph  M.  W.).  An  eminent  English 
landscape  painter  (1775—1851). 

P.  520.  Pindar.  A  great  lyric  poet  (B.  C.  about  522-442).  —  Epaminondas.  A  famous 
Theban  general.  Died  B.  C.  362. 

P.  521.  O  fans  BandttsicB,  &c.  O  fountain  of  Bandusia,  more  glittering  than  crystal. 
Horace,  Ode  III.  13. 

P.  522.    .Adsum.     The  date  is  for  the  death  of  Thackeray.     In  The  Newcomes,  by  this 


624 


NOTES. 


author,  a  gentleman  reduced  to  poverty  (Colonel  Newcome)  is  obliged  to  seek  a  shelter  in 
his  old  age  in  a  charitable  institution,  where  the  daily  roll-call  was  answered  by  A  dsum, 
meaning  "present,"  or  "  I  am  here."  On  his  death  bed  the  veteran,  before  closing  his 
eyes  forever,  answers,  as  if  to  a  summons  from  the  other  world,  "  Adsum."  —  For  notes 
on  Dante,  Cervantes,  £c.,  see  previous  pages. 

P.  528.     Exogenesis.     Growth  upon  the  outside. 

P.  541.  Parvenu.  A  person  of  low  origin.  The  epithet  is  applied  generally  to  those 
of  vulgar  manners. 

P.  547.  The  reader  will  find  that  these  exquisite  poems  require  the  closest  attention,  and 
that  they  amply  repay  it. 

P.  549.  ,  Nom  de  plume.     An  author's  assumed  name. 

P-  555-  Arachne.  A  Greek  damsel,  skilled  inweaving  and  embroidery,  who,  having 
affronted  Athene  by  a  challenge,  was  changed  to  a  spider. 

P.  563,  et  seq.  Old-wife  is  a  common  name  often  given  to  the  long-tailed  duck,  one  of 
the  wild  sea  ducks  of  New  England  in  the  winter.  The  old-wives  are  so  called  on  account 
of  their  noisy  and  peculiar  call-notes,  resembling  a  loud,  excited  conversation.  Their  plu- 
mage has  in  it  much  white.  — The  kittiwake  is  a  small  variety  of  gull,  found  on  our  coast  in 
the  winter.  —  The  guillemot  is  a  kind  of  sea-fowl,  web-footed,  with  short  wings,  not  good 
at  flying,  but  expert  in  swimming  and  diving.  It  is  an  arctic  bird.  —  The  burgomaster  is 
our  largest  gull,  a  great  destroyer  of  the  eggs  and  young  of  the  sea-fowl,  and  a  robber  of 
other  birds.  —  Coot  is  a  name  given  very  improperly  to  our  larger  sea  ducks,  such  as  the 
eider,  the  king-duck,  velvet-duck,  &c.  — The  merganser  is  a  sea-fowl,  duck-like,  but  it  has 
a  serrated,  narrow  bill  instead  of  the  usual  bill  of  a  duck.  —  The  water-witch  is  our  little 
grebe,  a  sea  bird  with  curious  lobed  feet,  but  a  thorough  water-bird,  diving  with  great 
celerity,  and  almost  impossible  to  shoot.  —  The  loon  is  also  a  lobe-footed  bird,  and  an 
expert  diver.  — Theanfc  is  an  arctic  bird  of  the  nature  of  the  penguin,  with  wings  so  small 
it  can  scarcely  fly  at  all.  The  auks  take  the  place  of  penguins  in  the  northern  hemisphere. 

P.  579.     A  slangy  repertoire.     A. stock  of  low  phrases. 

P.  587.  Caramba.  An  exclamation  of  impatience,  anger,  or  regret,  according  to  the 
tone.  —  Tapidaros.  Covered  stirrups.  —  Senorita.  A  young  Spanish  lady.  —  Catenas. 
Reins.  —  Canon.  A  deep  gorge  or  ravine.  —  Chaparral.  A  dense  thicket.  —  Serape.  A 
horseman's  cloak  or  blanket. 

Pp.  598,  599.  Attila  was  the  king  of  the  Huns,  and  for  many  years,  in  the  first  half  of 
the  fifth  century,  was  the  terror  both  of  Constantinople  and  Rome.  Not  long  after  the 
death  of  Alaric,  he  invaded  the  Roman  empire  at  the  head  of  half  a  million  of  barbarians, 
and  with  fire  and  sword  laid  waste  many  of  its  most  fertile  provinces.  Into  the  bold  sketch 
of  Alaric,  which  is  given  in  this  dirge,  the  poet,  in  the  license  of  his  art,  has  thrown  some 
of  the  distinguishing  features  of  Attila.  It  may  be  well  to  advise  the  youthful  reader  that, 
as  a  matter  of  sobar  history,  it  was  Attila,  and  not  Alaric,  who  used  to  say  that  the  grass 
never  grew  where  his  horse  had  trod  ;  and  that  it  was  not  Alaric,  but  Attila,  who  was 
called  the  Scourge  of  God.  With  this  appellation  the  king  of  the  Huns  was  so  well  pleased 
that  he  adopted  it  as  one  of  his  titles  of  honor.  —  Note  by  J.  Pijrpont,  in  A  merican  First 
Class  Book. 

P.  6n.  That  this  poem  should  have  been  attributed  to  Milton  himself  is  not  so  strange 
when  we  consider  that  it  is  a  paraphrase  of  a  passage  in  Milton's  "  Second  Defence  of  the 
People  of  England."  The  thoughts  are  Milton's;  the  form  in  which  they  are  expressed, 
though  beautiful  in  parts,  and  creditable  to  the  authoress,  is  not  at  all  Miltonian. 

P.  613.  This  striking  poem  is  taken  from  a  volume  published  by  Messrs.  Ticknor  & 
Fields.  The  author  died  about  the  year  1865.  He  resided  at  one  time  in  Cambridge, 
Mass.,  and  before  that  in  New  Albany,  Ind.  The  editor  has  not  been  able  to  learn  any- 
thing further  of  him.  —  Grapevine.  The  term  in  camp  for  a  false  report  (as  by  the  tele- 
graph). 

P.  617.  Although  Abraham  Lincoln  was  not  an  author  in  the  usual  sense  of  the  word, 
he  had  the  good  fortune  to  deliver  one  short  address,  which  will  not  suffer  by  comparison 


NOTES.  625 

with  any  passage  of  similar  length  either  in  English  or  in  any  other  modern  tongue.  The  sim- 
plicity ot  ttui  language  is  in  harmony  with  the  moral  sublimity  of  the  ideas.  We  seem,  as 
we  read,  to  be  contemplating  the  SOUL  of  the  man  rising  before  us  serene  and  unconscious 
as  a  mounum.  'lue  French  philosopher,  Vauvenargues,  said  that  "GREAT  THOUGHTS 
COME  FROM  THE  HEART."  Applying  the  apophthegm  to  this  immortal  address  of  Lincoln's, 
we  see  that  the  spontaneous  sentiments  and  conceptions  of  a  great  and  noble  nature,  espe- 
cially those  occurring  at  the  scene  of  some  great  event,  are  more  vital  and  powerful  than 
any  result  of  the  voluntary  intellectual  processes.  There  was  not  a  scholar  living  who  could 
have  added  any  point,  dignity,  or  grandeur  to  these  sentences. 
40 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

Abdication  of  Charles  V.,  the 396 

ADAMS,  JOHN " 

ADAMS,  JOHN  QUINCY 39 

Adsum 5-2 

Age,  Characteristics  of. 34* 

Aladdin 436 

Alaric,  Dirge  of. 59^ 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  B 569 

Albano,  a  May  Day  in.  .       544 

A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave 603 

ALLEN,  ELIZABETH  AKERS.     .....  549 

ALLSTON,  WASHINGTON 63 

Alpine  Guide,  Song  of  the 477 

Alpine  Sheep,  the 607 

Ambrose.    .   - 431 

American  Eloquence,  One  of  the  Sources 

of. 198 

American  Flag,  the 157 

America  to  Great  Britain 67 

AMES,  FJSHER. 34 

Among  the  Laurels 547 

Andre,  the  B'ate  of. 29 

Ange!o.     See  Michael  Angela. 

Antioch 331 

April 548 

Arnold,  Dr.  Thomas 567 

Arnold,  the  Treason  of.      33 

Aristocracy  among  Vegetables 543 

Aaepal  at  Springfold,  the 2t>4 

Asirvadam  the  Brahmin 525 

Assabeth  River 249 

Astronomy,  the  Uses  of. 150 

Athens,  Felton's  Description  of.     ...   284 

AUDI;  BO.V,  JOHN  J 68 

August  Rain,  the 123 

Aunt  Dinah,  Dofensive  Tactics  of.      .   .   372 
Authorship,  American 409 


PACK 

Autumn  Landscape,  an 476 

Autumn,  the  Suggestions  of. 223 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  Ensign  down.     .   .   327 

BACON,  LEONARD 224 

BANCROFT,  GEORGE 201 

Barefoot  Boy,  the 295 

BAKLOW,  JOEL "26 

Battle,  Autumn  of  1862,  the 295 

Battle  Hymn,  a 500 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic 450 

Bay  of  Fundy,  a  Race  with  the  Tide  in 

the 557 

Bay  of  Naples,  Picture  of  the 480 

Beach  Bird,  the  Little 108 

Bean  Field,  Thoreau's 415 

Beauty 539 

Beauty,  the  Spirit  of,  by  Mrs.  Sigour- 

ney 126 

Bjaver  Brook 430 

BEECHER,  HENRY  WARD 380 

Beer,  Spruce  and  Ginger,  at  Cambridge.  424 

Before  the  Rain 570 

Belfry  Pigeon,  the 279 

Beleaguered  City,  the 267 

Bible  and  the  Iliad,  the 187 

BIRD,  ROBERT  M.  .  . 239 

B.rth  of  a  Poet,  the 597 

Blind  Preacher,  the 51 

Boating,  Essay  by  Hipginson  on.    ...  502 

"        Holmes 315 

Bobolink,  Song  of  the 439 

BOKER,  GEORGE  H 496 

Bonaparte,  Ames's  Opinion  of.    ....  35 
"           Jefferson's  Opinion  of.      .   .  17 
"          A.  H.  Everett  on  the  Char- 
acter of  «•" 133 

627 


6iS 


INDEX. 


Books  and  Reading,  Dr.  N.  Porter  on.  354 

Boone,  Daniel,  Character  of. 393 

Bore,  Saxe's  Picture  of  a 407 

Boston  in  1790 305 

"      Picturesque  View  of. 573 

Brahmin,  Asirvadam  the 525 

Brown-bread  Cakes 583 

BROWNSON,  ORESTES  A 236 

Brussels,  a  Picture  of. 396 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN 135 

Buccaneer,  the 107 

Bugle,  the 599 

Bunker  Hill,  Address  to  the  Survivors  of 

the  Battle  of.      80 

Bunker  Hill  Monument,  Webster's  Ora- 
tion at  laying  Corner-stone  of.      ...  122 

Burgomaster  Gull,  the 563 

Burns,  Halleck's  Tribute  to 159 

"       Margaret  Fullar  upon 336 

Burns,  John,  of  Gettysburg 577 

Burr's  Duel  with  Hamilton 300 

BUSHNELL,  HORACE. 212 

Calavar,  Scene  from 239 

CALHOUN,  JOHN  C 86 

Californian >   587 

Cambridge  Thirty  Years  ago 423 

CARY,  ALICE. 465 

Carlyle,  Margaret  Fuller's  Portrait  of.  .   336 

Caste  in  India.      .   .   .   ^ 525 

Castles 509 

Cervantes  at  the  Battle  of  Lepanto.    .   .   186 

Chambered  Nautilus,  the 321 

Channing,  Hawthorne's  Day  on  the  As- 

sabeth  River  with 249 

CHANNING,  WILLIAM  E 72 

Character  affected  by  Climate 216 

and  Characteristic  Men.      .    .   445 
Charles  V.,  the  Abdication  of.      ....   396 

CHILD,  LYDIA  MARIA 220 

Children no 

"        Humorous  Characteristics  of.    232 

Children's  Hour,  the 274 

CHOATE,  RUFUS 196 

Christianity  the  Basis  of  Civilization.     .   219 

Church  Music 313 

City,  the,  may  be  the  Home  of  a  Poet.  .   263 

Civilization,  the  Law  of. 218 

Classical  Learning,  Story  on 61 

CLAY,  HENRY 53 

Clergyman,  Qualifications  of  a  successful.  311 
Climate  as  affecting  Character 216 


CLINCH,  REV.  J.  H 602 

Clock  on  the  Stairs,  the  Old 268 

Closing  Scene,  the 476 

Cocoa-nut  Tree,  Climbing  a 458 

Columbiad,  the 26 

Come  up  from  the  Fields,  Father.  .   .   .   462 

Commerce,  Romance  of. 506 

Concord,  the  Old  Manse  at 247 

Hymn  for  the  Completion  of  the 

Monument  at 234 

Connecticut  River,  Beauty  of  the  Valley 


of  the. 


223 


Consolations  of  the  Psalms 381 

COOPER,  JAMES  FENIMORE 112 

Coral  Grove,  the 166 

Country  Life 523 

Country  School,  Lowell's  Picture  of  the.  424 

Country  Sounds 513 

Couplets,  Epigrammatic 443 

Coupon  Bonds. 53! 

Crampton  Light  Infantry,  the 455 

CRANCH,  CHRISTOPHER  P 377 

Crane,  Ichabod 100 

Culprit  Fay,  the 154 

CURTIS,  GEORGE  WILLIAM 504 

DANA,  RICHARD  H 107 

DANA,  RICHARD  H..  JR 402 

Dante,  Lines  on  a  Bust  of. 451 

David  and  Homer,  Comparison  of.  .  .  470 

David  Swan 242 

Days  of  my  Youth. 593 

Dead  House,  the 433 

Death  of  Nations,  the.' 367 

Death  of  the  Flowers,  the 142 

December  xxxi 529 

Declaration  of  Independence,  J.  Adams's 

Letter  upon ix 

Deep  in  the  Wave  is  a  Coral  Grove.  .  .  166 

Defences,  In  the 552 

DEWEY,  ORVILLE 144 

Dickens,  Charles,  Fields's  Recollections 

of. 418 

Dickens  in  Camp 580 

Dirge  for  Two  Veterans 463 

Dirge  of  Alaric .  598 

Distance 547 

DOANE,  GEORGE  W 600 

Domestic  Life 231 

Down  to  Sleep 547 

DRAKE,  JOSEPH  R 154 

"        Halleck's  Tribute  to 161 


INDEX. 


629 


DRAPER,  JOHN  W 366 

Dream  of  Margaret,  the 391 

Drifting 480 

Driftwood,  the  Fire  of. 270 

Ducklow,  the  Troubles  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  531 

Dutchman's  Fireside,  the.    .' 57 

Dutch  Justice 94 

Dutch  Republic,  Rise  of  the 395 

DWIGHT,  JOHN  S 385 

DWIGHT,  TIMOTHY 22 

Early  Associations,  the  Power  of.   ...   332 

Earth  the  Mother  of  all,  to 472 

EASTMAN,  CHARLES  G 605 

Education  in  Massachusetts,  Labors  of 

Horace  Mann  for. 172 

Education,  Meaning  of  a  Liberal.    .   .   .   224 

Elms  of  New  England,  the 223 

Eloquence   affected  by   National   Pros- 
perity  198 

Eloquence  of  the  Indians,  Palfrey  on  the.  171 

Webster 196 

Embargo,  Quincy's  Speech  on  the.    .   .     44 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO 227 

England  and  America,  War  between.    .    33?> 

English  Channel,  Fight  in  the 113 

English  Language,  the 441 

in  Shakespeare,  the.  482 

Lectures  on  the.  .   .   206 

Eva,  Mrs.  Stowe's  Portrait  of.     ....   371 

Evening 600 

by  a  Tailor 329 

"          by  Percival 167 

"          by  the  Lake  Side 289 

"          Wind,  the 141 

EVERETT,  ALEXANDER  H 132 

EVERETT,  EDWARD 147,  59^ 

Exhibition  of  an  Infant  School 454 

Exogenesis 528 


Factory  Girl's  Life,  View  of  a 589 

Faerie  Queene,  the,  Characteristics  of.  .   385 
Farm  Yard,  Sights  and  Sounds  of  a.  .   .   514 

Fate  and  Free-will 368 

FELTON,  CORNELIUS  C 284 

FIELDS,  JAMES  T 417,  606 

Fire  of  Drift  Wood,  the 270 

First  Snow-fall,  the 435 

Flag,  the  American. 157 

Florence,  Everett's  Recollections  of  Gal- 
ileo in  visiting 151 

Flowers,  the  Procession  of  the 503 


Fountain  of  the  Muses 521 

Fourth  of  July,  Glorifications  of  the.      .  236 

FRANKLIN,  BENJAMIN i 

Autobiography  of.     ....  2 

Free-will,  the  Limits  of. 368 

French  Conquest  of  Europe,  the  Fear  of.  35 

FKENEAU,  PHILIP 593 

FULLER,  MARGARET 335 

Future  Life,  the 143 

GAIL  HAMILTON 581 

Galileo,  Everett's  Tribute  to 151 

Garden,  Mitchell's  Description  of  his.  .  485 

My  Summer  in  a 541 

Acquaintance,  Lowell's.      .   .   .  426 

Genius  and  Study,  the  Relations  of.  .   .  145 
Obligations  of  the  World  to  Men 

of.      209 

Geography  and   History,   the  Relations 

between, 307 

Gettysburg,  the  Battle  of.      577 

"         Lincoln's  Speech  at  ....  617 

Girard,  Stephen,  a  Portrait  of.    ....  488 

Give  me  of  your  Bark,  O  Birch  Tree.    .  272 

Gnosis >   .   .    .   .  379 

GODWIN,  PARKE 409 

Good  by,    proud  World;   I   am    going 

Home 235 

Gospels,  the  Historical  Method  in  the.  214 

Grandfather  gazes  at  the  Sea 507 

"         Picture  of,  by  Parker.      .   .  341 

Great  Britain,  America  to 67 

Calhoun  on  a  War  with.  89 
Greece,  Advantages  in  the  Geographical 

Position  of. 307 

Greece,  Influence  of,  upon  Civilization.  187 

Green  River 139 

GREENE,  ALBERT  G 600 

GREENE,  GEORGE  W 349 

HALE,  EDWARD  EVERETT 470 

HALLECK,  FITZ-GKEENE 158 

HAMILTON,  ALEXANDER 29 

the  Death  of. 3°° 

Hannah  Binding  Shoes 608 

Hans  Breitmann 5°9 

HARTE,  FRANCIS  BP.ET 576 

Hasty  Pudding,  the,  by  Barlow.  ....  27 

Haunts  of  the  Muses,  the 5*9 

HAWTHORNE,  NATHANIEL 241 

Hayne,  Webster's  Speech  in  Reply  to.  .  85 

Health  the  first  Requisite 568 


630 


INDEX. 


HEDGE,  FREDERICK  H 253 

Hedges,  Quincy's  experiments  in,  ...  306 

Herbarium,  To  my 611 

Hiawatha's  Sailing 272 

HIGGINSON,  THOMAS  W 501 

HILDRETH,  RICHARD 299 

HILLARD,  GEORGE  S 307 

Historical  View  of  the  American  Revo- 
lution   349 

History  should  not  be  too  minute.      .   .  212 

HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  F 604 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL 314 

HOLLAND,  JOSIAH  G 453 

Holyoke,  Mount 223 

Home,    Illustrations  cf    divine    Truth 

drawn  from  the 383 

Homer  and  David,  Comparison  of.     .   .  470 

Homer,  Influence  of,  upon  Civilization.  187 

Honesty  the  best  Policy,  a  low  Maxim.  311 

HOPKINS,  MARK 217 

Horseshoe  Robinson.     ........  162 

House  in  the  Meadow,  the 615 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD 448 

HOWELL,  ELIZABETH  LLOYD,    .  .  .  .  611 

i       HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  D 572 

Hudson,  Ancient  Navigation  of  the.  .   .  58 

HUNT,  HELEN 544 

Hymn  to  Mars » 472 

Hyperion 259 

I  am  Old  and  Blind 611 

Iceberg,  Picture  of  an 402 

If  and  if.     .   .   . 

I  feel  a  newer  Life  in  every  Gale.    .  .   . 

I  fill  this  Cup  to  one,  &c 

I  have  a  Cottage . 

Iliad,  the,  and  the  Bible 

Illinois  Town,  Fight  between  Indians  at. 

I  love  the  old  melodious  Lays 

Immortality 

Parker's  Discourse  upon. 

Indian  Burying-ground,  the 

Lodge,  Description  of  an.  .  .  . 

Indians,  Palfrey's  Character  of  the.  .  . 
"  Penn's  Treaty  with  the.  .  .  . 
"  Sprague's  Reference  to  the.  127, 
"  Wirt  on  the  Wrongs  of  the.  .  . 

Infant  School,  Exhibition  of  an.  .   .  .   . 

Infancy,  Characteristics  of. 

Influence,  Moral  and  Intellectual,  the 
Law  of. 

Influence,  the  Reach  of. 


Intemperance,  Sprague  on  the  Evils  of.  131 

W.  Phillips  on 360 

In  the  Defences 552 

In  the  greenest  of  our  Valleys 344 

Inventors,  What  the  World  owes  to.     .  209 

Irony  of  Nature,  the 253 

Irving's  Columbus,  A.  H.  Everett's  No- 
tice of. 134 

IRVING,  WASHINGTON 92 

Isles  of  Shoals .  570 

Italian  Landscape,  an 546 

Italy,  Associations  with  the  Ruins  and 

History  of. 280 

Italy   Modern,  contrasted  with  Ancient 


Rome. 


252 


Jackson,  Andrew,  J.  Q.  Adams's  Criti- 
cism upon  the  Policy  of. 40 

JACKSON,  GENERAL  HENRY  R 607 

Japan  in  the  Sixteenth  Century.     ,   .   .   302 
JEFFERSON,  THOMAS 15 


John  Burns,  of  Gettysburg. 
JUDD,  SYLVESTER.     .  .  . 


577 


Keats,  After  a  Lecture  on 325 

KENNEDY,  JOHN  P 162 

Key,  Francis  S 594 

KING,  THOMAS  STARR 515 

Kitchen,  How  to  keep  Order  in  a.      .   .  372 
Knapp,  Webster's  Speech  on  lha  Trial 

of. 83 

Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York.  94 


Lafayette,  Everett's  Tribute  to 153 

"         Miss  Sedgwick  shakes  Hands 

with 122 

Landscape,  Water  as  a  Part  of.  ....  484 

Language,  Emerson's  Essay  on.     ...  228 

"          Importance  of  the  Study  of.  208 

109    Languages  blended  in  English 441 

339    LARCOM,  LUCY 608 

593    Last  Leaf,  the 323 

491    Last  Walk  in  Autumn,  the 290 

Laurels.  Among  the 549 

Learned  Professions,  the 225 

Leather-Stocking,  by  Cooper 117 

LEGARE,  HUGH  S 189 

Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 100 

LELAND,  CHARLES  G 509 

Lepanto,  the  Battle  of. 176 

Lettuce  Salad 543 

Liberal  Education,  the  Meaning  of  a.    .  224 


INDEX. 


LINCOLN,  ABRAHAM 617 

Literary  Men,  Painful  Experiences  of.  .  4:0 

"     Responsible  for  the  Prev- 
alence of  a  warlike  Spirit 251 

Literature,  Influence  cf  Puritanism  on.     189 
Women  upon.  .   358 

Little  Beach  Bird,  the 108 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL 421 

"       MARIA  WHITE 607 

"       ROBERT  T.  S 412 

LONGFELLUW,  HEXRY  W 260 

SAMUEL 606 

LUNT,  GEORGE 275 

Lyceum,  the,  as  a  Source  of  Influence.     359 

Magnolia  Grandiflora,  the 377 

Manners  of  the  Poultry  Yard 486 

MANN,  HORACE, 172 

Manse,  Description  of  the 247 

Manufactures,  J.  Q.  Adams's  Report  on.  40 
Margaret,  a  Talc  of  the  Real  and  the 

Ideal 389 

Marion,  General  F.,  Life  of. 257 

M^ARSH,  GEORGE  P 206 

Martyrs  to  Science 566 

May-day  in  Albano,  a, 544 

Mr.  Biglow's  Opinions  upon.  437 
"  Selections  from  Emerson's 

Poem  on 233 

May,  the  Reign  of. 167 

McFingal,  by  Trumbull 21 

Meerschaum  Pipes «  316 

Meeting-house  on  Sunday,  Fragrance  of 

the 512 

Melanie 280 

MELLEN,  GRENVILLE 599 

MELVILLE,  HERMAN 458 

Men  and  Women 582 

Mexico,  View  of.  239 

Mercantile  Profession,  the  Dangers  and 

Duties  of. 309 

Michael  Angelo,  Sonnet  on  a  falling 

Group  by 66 

'Mid  Pleasures  and  Palaces 597 

MILLER,  JOAQUIN 586 

Milton,  Channing's  Essay  on 73 

Milton's  Prayer  of  Patience 611 

Milton,  the  Prose  Works  of. 77 

MITCHELL,  DONALD  G 483 

REV.  WALTER 609 

Model  Farm,  the  Picture  of  a 148 

Montaigne,  Influences  of. 224 


Moral  Ideas,  Progress  of. 221 

Morning,  Cranch's  Sonnet  on 378 

Street,  the 554 

MORRIS,  GEORGE  P 602 

Mosses  from  an  old  Manse 247 

MOTLEY,  JOHN  LOTHROP 395 

MOULTON,  LOUISE  CHANDLER 615 

Mountains  and  the  Sea  compared.  .   .   .  320 

Mountains,  Scenery  among  the 516 

Mountain,  the 616 

Movers,  the 574 

Murder  of  Stephen  White.    .   .*   .  .  .  83 

Muscular  Christianity 568 

Muses,  the  Haunts  of  the 519 

Music  in  Church  Service 313 

Musical  Rhythm  of  the  Faerie  Queene.  387 

My  Aunt 322 

My  Familiar 407 

My  Life  is  like  the  Summer  Rose.     .   .  596 

My  Summer  in  a  Garden 541 

My  Wife  and  Child 607 

Nahant  Beach 282 

Napoleon.     See  Bonaparte. 

National  Greatness,  the  true  Sources  of.  364 

Nations  as  well  as  Men  mortal 367 

Nature,  Beauty  of. 34° 

"        destitute  of  Sympathy 256 

"        the  baffling  Pursuit  of.   ....   254 
Navigation,  Dutch  Method  of.     ....     58 

NEAL,  JOHN 597 

Nuremburg,  Description  of.     .....   510 

New  England,  Three  Eras  of. 275 

Newfoundland,  a  View  in  the  Harbor  of.  412 
New  Priest  in  Conception  Bay,  the.  .   .  412 

Newspaper,  the 428 

New  York,  Knickerbocker's  History  of.     94 

Niagara,  by  Mrs.  Sigourney 124 

Night,  Cranch's  Sonnet  on 378 

Nightfall 478 

NORTON,  ANDREWS 595 

Notch  of  the  White  Mountains 23 

November  and  April 606 

Oblivion,  the  Uses  of. 212 

O  Country,  bleeding  from  the  Heart.    .  499 

Odors  of  Sanctity 5" 

Old  Age,  Parker's  Discourse  upon.   .   .  34° 

Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs,  the 268 

Old  Ironsides 327 

Old  Oaken  Bucket,  the 594 

Old  Sergeant,  the «...  613 


INDEX. 


O  Messenger,  art  thou  the  King  or  I.    .  547 

Oriental  Life 525 

Orrery,  a  Living 455 

O  Thou  to  whom  in  ancient  Time.      .   .  106 

Our  Orders 449 

Out-door  Papers 502 

Outre  Mer. 261 

Over  the  Hills 612 

O,  wild,  enchanting  Horn 549 


Painted  Columbine,  to  the 604 

PALFREY,  JOHN  G 168 

PALMER,  JOHN  W 524 

Palmyra,  the  Approach  to 191 

PARK,  EDWARDS  A 311 

PARKER,  THEODORE 338 

PARKMAN,  FRANCIS 490 

Parnassus,  a  Visit  to. 5!9 

PARSONS,  THOMAS  W 451 

PARTON,  JAMES. 487 

Passenger  Pigeon,  the 68 

Passing  Away 104 

Patriotism 236 

PAULDING,  JAMES  K 57 

PAYNE,  JOHN  HOWARD 597 

Peace  between  England  and  America.   .   334 

"      Invocation  to 596 

"      the  Way  of  Progress 363 

Peach  Blossoms,  the 555 

Penn's  Treaty  with  the  Indians 201 

PERCIVAL,  JAMES  G 165 

PHELPS,  EnzaBETH  S 589 

Philip  II.,  History  of. 176 

"         a  Picture  of. 399 

PHILLIPS,  WENDELL 357 

Philosopher  to  his  Love,  the 328  ! 

Physical  Culture 566  j 

PIATT.  JOHN  J 554 

Pickering,  Timothy,  Ames's  Letter  to.      35  j 

Picture  Book,  the 465  | 

PIERPONT,  JOHN 104 

Pilot,  the,  by  Cooper 113  I 

Pilgrims,  Oration  on  the  Anniversary  of 

the  Landing  of  the 82  j 

PINKNEY,  EDWARD  C 601  | 

Piscatnqua  River 571  j 

Plymouth,  Webster's  Oration  at.    ...     82  | 

Pocahontas 48  j 

Wreck  of  the 560 

POE,  EDGAR  A 343  | 

Poems  acquire  Beauty  by  Time.      .   .   .   318 
Poet,  Birth  of  a 597  ; 


Poetry,  Charming  on  the  Influence  of.   . 

Dewey  on 

not  altogether  in  the  Country.  . 

Some  of  the  Characteristics  of. 

PORTER,  NOAH 

Postal  Facilities  in  1806 

Poultry  Yard,  Manners  of  the 

Preacher,  Modern  Culture  necessary  to 

the 

PRESCOTT,  WILLIAM  H 

"  referred  to  by  W.  Phillips.  . 

Present  Crisis,  the 

Press,  Uses  and  Abuses  of  the 

Problem,  the 

Procession  of  the  Flowers,  the 

Progress  of  Moral  Ideas 

Progress,  Saxe's  Poem  on 

Proverbs,  the  Sources  of. 

Prue  and  I 

Psalm  xxiii.,  Beecher  on 

Psalm  of  Life,  a 

Puritan  Worship,  Characteristics  of.  .   . 
Puritanism,     Influence    of,    on    Litera- 
ture  


73 
MS 

263 
386 
354 
34 
486 

3" 
175 
359 
439 
276 
234 
503 

221 
406 
28l 
5°5 

266 
313 

189 


QUINCY,  EDMUND 304 

JOSIAH 44 

"        Ames's  Letters  to.     .  34 

"        the  Life  of. 305 

Rain,  Before  and  After  the.  570 

Randolph,  Johrt,  Calhoun's  Speech  in 

Reply  to 89 

Raven,  the 345 

Reading,  Porter  on  the  Choice  of.  ...  354 

READ,  THOMAS  B 476 

Reforms,  Who  are  Disturbed  by.  ...  319 

Religion,  a  Harmony  of  the  Faculties.  .  384 

Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  the.  .  .  .  395 

Robin,  Good  Appetite  of  the 426 

Romance  of  the  Sea 506 

Rome,  the  Effect  of  Centuries  of  War 

upon 251 

Roost  of  Wild  Pigeons,  a 68 

Rural  Life,  E.  Everett  on 148 

Saco  Valley,  the 515 

St.  Lawrence,  the  River,  by  Miss  Sedg- 

wick 121 

St.  Paul  preaching  at  Athens 285 

Sandys,  George,  Translator  of  Ovid.      .  204 

SARGENT,  EPES 603 


INDEX. 


633 


SAXE,  JOHN  G 406 

Schiller's  Fable  of  the  Poverty  of  Au- 
thors    ...  410 

Scholar's  Country  House,  a 162 

Scholar,  the,  Where  he  should  live.    .   .  263 

School-house,  the  Country 424 

School-houses  in  ancient  Times.      .   .   .172 

Sclavi,  the  warlike  History  of  the.  .   .   .  252 

Scott,  Margaret  Fuller  upon 336 

Sea-fight.    See  English  Channel  and  Le- 
panto. 

Sea- fowl  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals 563 

Sea  from  Shore 5°5 

Sea-shore  and  Mountains  compared.      .  320 

Seasons,  Beauty  of  the 34° 

Sea-weed 273 

SEDGWICK,  CATHARINE  M 120 

September,  a  Song  for 452 

Sergeant,  the  Old 613 

Shakespeare's  Genius 481 

Shurtleff   School-house,    Hymn   at  the 

Dedication  of. 602 

SIGOURNEY,  LYDIA  H 123 

Silent  Partner,  the 589 

.^SIMMS,  WILLIAM  G 257 

Sincere,  not  enough  to  be 382 

Slavery,  Jefferson  on  the  Influence  of.  .  18 

Sleep,  Cranch's  Sonnet  on 378 

"      sweetly  in  your  humble  Graves.  .  609 

Sleepy  Hollow,  Legend  of. 100 

Smoking,  Holmes  on 317 

Snow-bound 297 

Snow-fall,  the  first 435 

Society,  its  Growth  like  that  of  a  Tree.  2 

Socrates,  the  Teaching  of. 286 

Softly  now  the  Light  of  Day 600 

Sumthin  in  the  Pastoral  Line 436 

Songs  of  the  Sierras 586 

Spain,  the  Effects  of  War  upon 252 

"       the  Journey  into 261 

Spanish  Tavern,  a 262 

Sparkling  and  bright 604 

Spenser's  Faeris  Queene,  Dvvight's  Es- 
say on 3S3 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  the,  by  Mrs.    Sigour- 

ney ,  t26 

SPOFFORD,  MRS.  HARRIET  E.  P.  .  .  .  557 

6PRAGUE,  CHARLES 127 

"         CHARLES  J 611 

Springfield,  the  Arsenal  at 264 

Spring,  the  Tokens  of 233 

"        Sights  and  Sounds  of.      ....  438 


Star^spangled  Banner,  the 594 

Staten  Island,  the  Woods  of. 223 

State  Sovereignty,  Calhoun  on 87 

STEUMAN,  EDMUND  C 616 

Steuben,  the  Baron 349 

STODDARD,  RICHARD  H 521 

Stone,  an  Overturned 319 

STORY,  JOSEPH 61 

"      WILLIAM  W 440 

STOWE,  HARRIET  E.  BEECHER.     ...  369 

STREET,  ALFRED  B 351 

Study  and  Genius,  the  Relations  of.  .    .  145 

Style,  Channing's  Opinion  of.      ....  77 

Style  in  Writing,  on  the  Value  of   ...  355 

Suburban  Sketches 573 

Summer  in  the  Heart *.   .   .   .  603 

Summsr  Shower,  Scene  after  a 595 

SUMXER,  CHARLES 361 

Sunrise,  a  Picture  of,  by  Cranch.    .   .   .  378 

Sunset  and  Moonrise,  by  Read 478 

Sweet  Home 597 

Sylphs  of  the  Seasons,  the,  by  Allston.  64 

Symbolism  of  Language 229 

Tacking  Ship  off  Shore.    .   ...   .   .   .  609 

Tappan  Zee,  Landscape  on  the 103 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD 518 

Teachers,  Indebtedness  of  the  World  to.  209 

Tell  me  not  in  mournful  Numbers.     .    .  266 

Temperance,  W.  Phillips  on 360 

TERRY,  ROSE. 528 

Thackeray,  Poem  on  the  Death  of.     .   .  522 

Thanatopsis .136 

THAXTER,  MRS.  CELIA 560 

The  Day  is  done 274 

The  Farmer  sat  in  his  Easy  Chair.     .   .  605 

The  melancholy  Days  are  come 142 

Theological  Strife,  Beecher's  Picture  of.  382 

THOREAU,  HENRY  D 414 

Thought,  a  Sonnet 547 

"          is  deeper  than  all  Speech.    .   .  379 

Thunder-storm  at  Sja  in  the  Tropics,  a.  403 

TIMKOD,  HENRY 609 

Tide  in  the  Bay  of  Funcly,  a  Race  with  a.  557 

Titbottom,  Grandfather 507 

Tobacco,  Holmes  on 317 

Tonty,  Henri  de 492 

Three  Eras  of  New  England 273 

Troubles  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ducldow.  .    .  531 

TROWBRIDGE,  JoH.vT 531 

Truce  of  God,  the 3«> 

True  Grandeur  of  Nations,  the 363 


634 


INDEX. 


TRUMBULL,  JOHN 20 

TUCKER,  ST.  GEORGE 593 

TUCKERMAN,  HENRY  T 393 

Turks,  Defeat  of  the,  at  Lepanto.  ...  176 

TOWNSEND,  ELIZA 596 

Two  Visages,  the '. 530 

Two  Years  Before  the  Mast 402 

TYLER,  MOSES  COIT 566 

Uncle  Tom  reads  his  Testament.     .   .   .  370 

Union  and  Liberty 326 

United  States,  History  of,  by  Bancroft.  201 

Unseen  Spirits 281 

Uses  and  Abuses  of  the  Daily  Press.      .  276 

Vegetables,*  Distinctions  of  Caste  among.  543 

Ventilation  in  School-houses 174 

VERY,  JONES 604 

Villages,  the  Two 530 

Violins  compared  to  Poems 317 

Virginia  in  Colonial  Times,  Picture  of.  .  203 

Walden  Pond 416 

War  and  Loyalty 236 

"   the  Evils  of. 251 

"    Sumner  on 362 

"   when  justifiable 238 

WARE,  WILLIAM 191 

WARNER,  CHARLES  D.  ........  541 

Washington,  Character  of. 15 

"           Quincy's  Personal  Recol- 
lections of. 306 

Water-fowl,  to  a 138 

Water  in  Landscape 484 

WAYLAND,  FRANCIS 186 

Way  to  sing,  the, 548 

Wealth,  Danger  of  too  eager  Pursuit  of.  310 

Weather-cock,  to  the 600 

Weave  no  more  Silks,  ye  Lyons  Looms.  449 

WEBSTER,  DANIEL.  .........  78 


Webster,  Choate's  Eulogy  on  .....    196 

"          Intellectual  Character  of,  by 
Whipple  ............   .   .   446 

Westminster  Abbey,  Evening  in.    ...     97 
When  Breezes  are  soft  and  Skies  are 


139 


When    Freedom    from    her     Mountain 
Height  ...............   157 

WHIPPLE,  EDWIN  P  ..........  445 

White  Mountains,  the  .........   515 

"  Description  of,  by  T. 

D  wight  ...............     23 

WHITE,  RICHARD  GRANT  .......  481 

White,  Stephen,  Murder  of.     .....     83 

WHITMAN,  WALT  ..........  461 

WHITNEY,  ADELINE  D.  T.  ......   512 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  G  ..........  287 

WILDE,  RICHARD  H  .........   596 

Willewemoc  in  Summer,  the  ......   352 

Williams,  Roger  ...........   205 

AViLLiAMs,  WILLIAM  R.  .......  251 

WILLIS,  N.  P  ............  278 

WlLLSON,    FORCEYTHE  ........    613 

Wind  Flower,  the  ...........  605 

Winged  Worshippers,  the  .......   128 

Winter,  Moral  and  Physical  Uses  of.     .215 
WINTHROP,  ROBERT  C  ........  330 

WIRT,  WILLIAM  ...........     47 

Women,  Influence  of,  upon  Literature.  .  358 
Woodman,  spare  that  Tree  .......   602 

WOODSWORTH,  SAMUEL,  .......   594 

WOOLSEY,  THEODORE  D  .......   209 

WOOLSON,  ABBA  G  ..........  612 

Wordsworth,  Tribute  to  ........   606 

Wouter  Van  Twiller,  the  Description  of.    94 
Wreck  of  the  Pocahontas  .......   560 

Yet's  Christmas  Box  .........  557 

Zenobia  ..............  igi,  195 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS.  . 


ADAMS,  JOHN 

ADAMS,  JOHN  QUINCY.  .  . 
ALDRICH,  THOMAS  B.  .  . 
ALLEN,  ELIZABETH  A.  .  . 
ALLSTON,  WASHINGTON.  .  . 

AMES,  FISHER 

AUDUBON,  JOHN  J 

BACON,  LEONARD.  .  .  . 
BANCROFT,  GEORGE.  .  .  . 

BARLOW,  JOEL, 

BEECHER,  HENRY  WARD.  . 

BIRD,  ROBERT  M 

BOKER,  GEORGE  H.  .  .  . 
BROWNSON,  ORESTES  A.  . 
BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN. 
BUSHNELL,  HORACE.  .  .  . 

CALHOUN,  JOHN  C.     .    .    . 

GARY,  ALICE 

CHANNING,  WILLIAM  E. .  . 
CHILD,  LYDIA  MARIA.  .  . 

CHOATE,  RUFUS 

CLAY,  HENRY 

CLINCH,  REV.  J.  H.     .    .    , 
COOPER,  J.  FENIMORE.    .    . 
CRANCH,  CHRISTOPHER  P. 
CURTIS,  GEORGE  WM.    .    , 


PAGE  I 

ii  LDANA,  RICHARD  H.    . 
39  [DANA,  RICHARD  H.,  JR. 


569 

549 
63 
34 
68 

224 

201 

26 

380 

239 


DEWEY,  ORVILLE.  .    .  . 

DOANE,  GEORGE  W.  .  . 

DRAKE,  JOSEPH  R.     .  . 

DRAPER,  JOHN  W.      .  . 

DWIGHT,  JOHN  S.  .  — ^  . 

DWIGHT,  TIMOTHY.    .  . 

EASTMAN,  CHARLES  G.  . 
EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO. 
EVERETT,  ALEXANDER  H. 


PACK 
107 
402 
144 
600 

154 
366 

385 
22 

605 
227 
132 


147,  598 


EVERETT,  EDWARD. 
496! 

2361FELTON,  CORNELIUS  C.  .    .  284 
135  ^IELDS,  JAMES  T.    .    .417,  606 

2I2S^RANKLIN,  BENJAMIN.      .      .         I 

FRENEAU,  PHILIP.  . 
FULLER,  MARGARET. 


86 
465 

72 

220 
I96 

53 
602 

112 

377 
504 


593 
335 


GAIL  HAMILTON 581 

GODWIN,  PARKE 409 

GREENE,  ALBERT  G.  .    .    .  600 
GREENE,  GEORGE  W.     .    .  349 

HALE,  EDWARD  E.     .    .  .  470 

HALLECK,  FITZ-GREENE.  .  158 

HAMILTON,  ALEXANDER.  .    29 

(635) 


636 


LIST    OF    AUTHORS. 


HARTE,  FRANCIS  BRET. 
HAWTHORNE,  NATHANIEL. 
HEDGE,  FREDERICK  H.   .    . 
HIGGINSON,  THOMAS  W. 
HILDRETH,  RICHARD.     .    . 
-  HILLARD,  GEORGE  S.      .    . 
—  HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  F.  .    . 
HOLLAND,  JOSIAH  G.  .    .    . 
HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL. 
HOPKINS  MARK  

576 
241 

253 
501 
299 

307 
604 

453 
3H 
217 

448 
611 

572 
544 

92 

607 

15 

388 

162 
594 
5i5 

608 
189 
509 
617 
260 
606 
421 
607 
412 
275 

20^ 

599 
458 

MILLER,  JOAQUIN  
MITCHELL,  DONALD  G.  .    . 
"           REV.  WALTER.  . 
MORRIS  GEORGF  P.  ... 

586 

483 
609 
602 

395 
615 

597 
595 

1  68 
524 
3ii 
338 
490 

45i 
487 

57 
597 
165 
589 
357 
554 
104 
60  1 
343 
354 
175 

304 
44 

476 

603 

406 

120 
123 

257 

557   x 

MOTLEY,  JOHN  L  
MOULTON,  LOUISE  C.      .    . 

NORTON,  ANDREWS.   .    .    . 

PALFREY,  JOHN  G.      ... 
PALMER,  JOHN  W.      ... 
PARK,  EDWARDS  A.    ... 
PARKER,  THEODORE.  .    .    . 
PARKMAN,  FRANCIS.  .    .    . 
PARSONS,  THOMAS  W.    .    . 
PARTON  JAMES  

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD.  .    .    . 
HOWELL,  ELIZABETH  L. 
HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  D.  .    . 
HUNT,  HELEN  

IRVING,  WASHINGTON.    .    . 

JACKSON,  GEN.  HENRY  R.  . 
JEFFERSON,  THOMAS.  .    .    . 
JUDD,  SYLVESTER.  .... 

KENNEDY,  JOHN  P.     ... 
KEY,  FRANCIS  S  
KING,  THOMAS  STARR.    .    . 

PAULDING,  JAMES  K.  .    .    . 
PAYNE,  JOHN  HOWARD.  .    . 
PERCIVAL,  JAMES  G.   .    .    . 
PHELPS,  ELIZABETH  S.   .    . 
PHILLIPS,  WENDELL.  .    .    . 
PIATT,  JOHN  J  
PIERPONT,  JOHN  
PINKNEY,  EDWARD  C.    .    . 
POE  EDGAR  A 

LEGARE,  HUGH  S  
LELAND,  CHARLES  G.     .    . 
LINCOLN,  ABRAHAM.  .    .    . 
LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  W.    . 
.               "              SAMUEL.  .    . 
Y  LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL.  . 
"       MARIA  WHITE.     . 
"        ROBERT  T.  S.  .    . 

PORTER,  NOAH  
PRESCOTT,  WILLIAM  H.  .    . 

OUINCY,  EDMUND  

READ,  THOMAS  B  

SARGENT,  EPES  
SAXE  JOHN  G    

MANN,  HORACE  

SEDGWICK,  CATHARINE  M. 
[-SIGOURNEY,  LYDIA  H.    .    . 
SIAIMS,  WILLIAM  G.    .    .    . 
[  SPOFFORD.  HARRIET  E.  P.  . 

MARSH,  GEORGE  P.    .    .    . 
M  ELLEN,  GRENVILLE.     .    . 
MELVILLE,  HERMAN.  .     .     . 

LIST 

SPRAGUE,  CHARLES.  .    .    . 
SPRAGUE,  CHARLES  J.     .    . 
STEDMAN,  EDMUND  C.    .    . 
STODDARD,  RICHARD  H. 
STORY  JOSEPH  

OF 

127 
611 
616 
521 
61 
440 
369 
35i 
36i 

518 

I 

609 
53i 

20 

593 
393 
596 
566 

AUTHORS. 
VERY  JONES  

637 

WARE,  WILLIAM.   .    .    . 
WARNER,  CHARLES  D.    . 
WAYLAND,  FRANCIS.  .    . 
WEBSTER,  DANIEL.    .    . 
WHIPPLE,  EDWIN  P.  .    . 
WHITE,  RICHARD  GRANT. 
WHITMAN,  WALT.  .    .    . 
WHITNEY,  ADELINE  D.  T. 
WHITTIER,  JOHN  G.    .    . 
WILDE,  RICHARD  H.  .    . 
WILLIAMS,  WILLIAM  R.  . 
WILLIS,  N.  P  

.  191 

•  54i 
.  186 
.     78 

•  445 
.  481 
.  461 
.  512 
.  287 
.  596 
.  251 
278 

"      WILLIAM  W.  .     .     . 
>  STOWE,  HARRIET  E.  B.  .     . 
STREET,  ALFRED  B.    .    .    . 
SUMNER,  CHARLES.    .    .    . 

-  TAYLOR,  BAYARD.      .    .    . 
TERRY  ROSE  

THAXTER,  CELIA  
THOREAU,  HENRY  D.     .    . 
TIMROD,  HENRY  
TROWBRIDGE,  JOHN  T.    .    . 
TRUMBULL,  JOHN  
TUCKER,  ST.  GEORGE.    .    . 

TUCKERMAN,  HENRY  T.  .      . 

TOWNSEND,  ELIZA.     .    .    . 
TYLER,  MOSES  COIT.  .    .    . 

WlLLSON,  FORCEYTHE.     . 

WINTHROP,  ROBERT  C.  . 
WIRT,  WILLIAM.    .    .    . 

.  6I3 

•  330 

WOODWORTH,  SAMUEL.  . 
WOOLSEY,  THEODORE  D. 
WOOLSON,  ABBA  G.    .    . 

•  594 
.  209 
.  612 

Y, 


%-/    5     .   ^ 

£±P 


WHAT  TO  READ. 


[From  a  Familiar  Letter  to ,  astat.  16.] 

"  I  HAVE  seen  many  courses  of  reading  laid  down  for  young  people, 
but  I  never  knew  one  to  be  followed.  The  growing  tastes  and  wants 
of  each  student  soon  lead  him  away  from  any  predetermined  plan, 
and  the  literary  adviser  must  be  satisfied  with  giving  a  few  general 
hints.  After  the  Bible  and  Shakespeare,  I  hold  that  the  most  gen- 
erally useful  and  entertaining  books  (and  no  book  is  faithfully  read 
that  is  not  entertaining)  are  Plutarch's  Lives,  Boswell's  Life  of  John- 
son, the  Waverley  Novels,  Montaigne's  Essays,  Pepys's  Diary,  and 
Don  Quixote.  If  the  mature  reader  has  a  turn  for  philosophy,  he 
will  add  the  Dialogues  of  Plato,  the  works  of  Herbert  Spencer  and 
].  Stuart  Mill,  aud  Porter  on  the  Human  Intellect.  If  more  fiction 
be  desired,  as  will  be  quite  likely,  he  can  draw  upon  Thackeray, 
Dickens,  George  Eliot, — adding  Gil  Bias,  Hawthorne,  Cooper, 
Goethe,  La  Motte  Fouque,  and  Andersen.  One  of  the  chief  uses 
of  fiction  is  for  recreation  after  the  study  of  more  weighty  books. 

At  soir.e  time  during  youth  should  be  read  Gibbon,  Hume,  Ma- 
caulay,  Freeman,  Grote,  Niebuhr  or  Mommsen,  Hallam,  Motley, 
Prescott,  Bancroft  or  Hildreth  —  not  forgetting  Burke,  nor  Carlyle, 
probably  the  most  prejudiced,  but  certainly  the  most  picturesque 
and  powerful  of  them  all.  The  claims  of  science  must  not  be  over- 
looked. No  person  can  be  considered  well-read  who  has  not  some 
acquaintance  with  the  works  of  such  writers  as  Lyell,  Hugh  Miller, 
Tyndall,  Huxley,  Humboldt,  and  Darwin.  In  poetry  there  is  room 
for  a  wide  diversity  of  taste  ;  but  all  critics  agree  in  the  pre-eminence 
of  these  authors  :  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope,  Gray, 
Cowper,  Goldsmith,  Burns,  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Byron,  Coleridge, 
Shelley,  Tennyson,  Bryant,  Longfellow,  Emerson,  Whittier,  Holmes, 
and  Lowell.  Read  the  Brownings  also,  if  you  like  them,  and  Wil- 
liam Morris,  if  you  have  time.  I  would  read  Homer  in  Bryant's 

639 


640  WHAT   TO    READ. 

translation,  Dante  in  the  version  of  Longfellow  or  Parsons,  and 
Faust  as  rendered  by  Taylor  or  Brooks.  Cranch's  Virgil  is  also 
highly  commended.  To  supplement  your  knowledge  of  history  and 
geography  you  will  need  to  read  travels  occasionally ;  among  them 
those  of  the  Abbe  Hue,  Captain  Burton,  Bayard  Taylor,  Eliot  War- 
burton,  Kinglake,  Dr.  Kane,  J.  L.  Stephens,  Layard,  Livingstone, 
and  G.  W.  Curtis.  Criticism  is  best  read  late  in  your  course,  when 
you  have  acquired  some  general  knowledge  and  the  power  of  inde- 
pendent thought.  The  first  of  all  modern  critics  is  Carlyle,  and, 
next  to  him,  Macaulay.  Channing,  Taine,  and  Ruskin  are  each 
admirable  in  diverse  ways.  Examples  of  the  Essay  —  a  form  of  com- 
position which  has  been  adopted  by  many  of  the  finest  writers  —  may 
be  found  in  the  works  of  Addison,  Steele,  Lamb,  De  Ouincey,  Leigh 
Hunt,  Emerson,  Irving,  Holmes,  and  Lowell.  You  will  become 
acquainted  with  many  other  writers  in  this  fascinating  department 
when  once  you  begin  to  read.  Biography  should  be  regarded  as  a 
branch  of  history,  and,  in  many  respects,  the  most  instructive  part 
of  it.  There  is  not  space  to  give  even  a  tolerable  list  of  the  best 
biogra-phies,  and  you  must  consult  the  library  catalogues. 

It  is  a  good  plan,  if  you  have  the  time,  to  have  two  books  on  hand 
at  once,  so  that  every  day  you  may  read  history  or  popular  science, 
and  refresh  yourself  afterwards  with  travels,  fiction,  poetry,  or  amus- 
ing essays.  The  order  of  reading  is  not  very  important.  It  is  only 
important  to  begin,  and  to  pursue  what  you  have  chosen  until  it  be- 
comes a  pleasure  and  a  daily  necessity.  Thirty  pages  a  day  will 
in  a  year  amount  to  twenty  ordinary  volumes. 

I  have  not  mentioned  any  works  for  your  religious  instruction, 
because  I  prefer  to  leave  that  subject  to  the  care  and  direction  of 
your  parents. 

I  wish  to  add  that  the  most  pure  and  idiomatic  English  ever 
written  is  to  be  found  in  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress,  De  Foe's 
Robinson  Crusoe,  and  Franklin's  Autobiography. 

You  will  need  to  have  always  at  hand  an  unabridged  dictionary, 
—  Worcester's  or  Webster's —and  a  large  atlas.  If  you  write  or 
speak  you  will  find  Soule  and  Wheeler's  Manual  of  English  Pronun- 
ciation and  Spelling  indispensable  ;  and  you  can  hardly  do  without 
Wheeler's  Dictionary  of  Noted  Names  of  Fiction.  For  practice  in 
elocution  you  will  find  the  lessons  in  Professor  Munroe's  Vocal 
Culture  of  great  service.  For  reference,  an  Encyclopaedia  is  very 
essential." 

Your  friend  faithfully. 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


